Tippy Toes

Schmidt Wedding (Elmar) 871
With her scrubbing paddle, she sloughed with tenacious vigor, her proud smile growing as my callus diminished. It has been three months since my last pedicure.

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with my feet. My 13-year old self would stand in the shower and look down at her long skinny feet and cry tears of shame over how hideously big they were. My 24-year old self bought frivolous shoes to add flair to her size 10 base; the perfect support for the tall and confident woman she’d become. My 35-year old self has feet like an Indian, calloused and quiet, perfectly equipped to tiptoe about without waking sleepers, or plod across the summer-hot patio to put away pool toys.

My little piggies have been through a lot: breaks and scrapes, quite a few slivers and stubs. Once, wet tile broke both my Aruba vacation plans and my foot in one swift slip. But not everything afoot is tragic.

My feet have climbed a mountain; they have crossed the graduation stage. In glittery sneakers, they were the Something Blue that walked me down the aisle on my wedding day to the arms of the man I love.

After my hip surgery, I learned to walk again, or maybe I learned to enjoy walking for the first time. I walked with nowhere to go; I walked with a camera to take photos of things I was seeing along the way. As my pedometer racked up miles, what started as a giddy-up in my stride has smoothed out. When the chips are down, I always land on my feet.

These feet of mine have taken me places, but today, as I pretty them up with this pedicure, I put up my feet and relax.


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