Let me begin by saying that I’m a fairly classy girl. I believe myself to be, and I am. But gosh darn it…
I’m sitting in the dentist’s chair trying my damnedest not to let the ashy, white line carved landscape of my heels show. I stretch my toes out, arching ballerina style. I cross my legs to get some angles. I curse myself and curse my feet. Hence, fairly classy.
Listen, my feet don’t care if it’s 100 degrees outside: they will not sweat; they will not produce moisture. They are the dry salt you’d find if you drained out the Dead Sea. They are the picture of Death Valley if toes were attached. If my legs need exfoliating, all the tools I need are water and my feet.
I have my mother’s feet. As a kid I used to laugh heartily at hers. I would stoop down for a closer look and keel over in laughter. I would insist that she do something about those pumice stones she called feet. Those were the days when 1. I didn’t realize I’d inherited them and 2. I was too young and clueless to know how important nice feet are– especially for a woman.
So here I sit. I’ve managed to remember my jewelry and my makeup. Hair: ponytail. Nails: let’s move on. But overall, everything is a go and I felt like I did myself a solid job of looking like a well put-together lady. After all, I wanna be a lady. So, what’s a gal to do? My mother’s solution is to never never wear shoes that reveal her heels or toes. Me? I continue writhing in the chair looking for a decent hide my feet position while swearing to myself that I will always from here on out carry a travel sized bottle of lotion in my bag. Except– I’m more of a clutch girl….