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.