Mock-A-Sins be damned

Here's the background that you need.  Like a good episode of Lost, this goes here and there, back and forth.  You know the drill.

When I was 23 or so, I first realized that a good pair of heels was like a healing elixer.  Shortly thereafter, I found myself at the podiatrist office.  (Was it really my fault that the healing heels were a half size too small and I wore them all of the time anyway?)  The doctor, disgusted with what she saw said something about pronated hammer toes and splashed some acid here and there and told me:  you will wear new balance sneakers and clarks forever more.  I listened.  Briefly. 

Flash forward.  I generally wore sensible shoes through law school.  But somehow, I kept buying more and more impractical shoes.  I believe it has something to do with my friend Aleks and my first exposure to a special land called DSW.  I realized that this was tricky due to my old lady feet, but I couldn't help myself.  Who can resist the endangered metallic gold leopard?  No one, that's who.

Flash forward.  Last year of law school.  Danielle gets a treadmill.  Since my ankles are weak and don't allow me to run like a normal person trying to burn calories through cardio, I decide to walk quickly at an incline of 12% every day for 30 minutes.  No, no, I don't warm up.  No, i don't cool down.  I walk, I go to work, I go to school.  That's how it went.  An annoying pain developed.  Back to the foot doctor.  Tendonitis.  Kind of bad tendonitis.  Like, wtf are you doing that made this happen?  Again, new balance with inserts and clarks for the rest of my life.  But what about my beautiful sculpture garden of shoe treasures?  Too damn bad if you want to walk.  Fine.  Exercise with stupid slant bored.  Exercise with stupid golf balls.  Do far less strenuous walking on treadmill.

Flash forward.  Licensed attorney.  Beautiful shoes continue multiplying in close to hide all sorts of other things going on internally.  And then there are more.  And then there are more.  and more.  and more.  So many beautiful shoes.  They sit together in color-coded rows, begging to be praised and gently loved.  Practical black heels get worn to work.  After a while, only three days a week because, by Thursday, the pain is far too great.

Flash in the middle.  Roller skating with ladies.  Oh dear roller skating jesus, what on earth is wrong with my ankle?  Why can't it lift up the roller skate without tremendous pain?  I just want to skate with all of the pre teens who think I'm lame.  Ow ow ow.  For days, the pain continues.

Flash to last week.  Pain from sports injury continues.  Ankle frequently rolls.  So annoying.  Curse at ankle frequently.  Court appearance and deposition appearance require appropriate footwear.  Not clarks.  Pretty shoes.  I believe they were Steve Madden and Nine West.  Nothing over the top.  Okay, maybe there was a small cork platform on the Steve Maddens.  But whatever, they are comfy and I won in court.  Good shoes make good lawyers, clearly. 

Flash to Thursday.  Shower.  Reach to floor to obtain bottle of conditioner.  Ankle rolls.  On slippery surface, which adds a bit of a twist.  Howler monkey shrieking begins.  PAIN PAIN PAIN.  Go to work with foot in ankle brace, hoping pants are long enough to disguise because of the hideousness (in addition to the clarks). 

Friday.  Continue hobbling.  Limping.  Slow walking.  Continue taking ultracet until I become too tired to take anymore.  Then continue with monster doses of advil.  Nope, still hurts.

Saturday, still hurts, but getting slightly easier to walk.  It only hurts super bad if i have to move foot forward (i.e., accelerating/breaking in vehicle.  ouch.).

Earlier today.  Go grocery shopping.  Last store, Smith's.  Jackass bagger didn't pack reusable bags well AT ALL.  Leaning into car to adjust items in bag.  With no warning, trunk decides to close on back.  OW OW OW.  While trying to get trunk back up and writhe in pain, somehow, twist left ankle, formerly known as the not messed up ankle. 

Present.  Both ankles hurt.  I took an ultracet, but I think I just threw that up.  (oh, sorry, we weren't going to talk about that, but whatever.  It happened.) 

Future.  Tomorrow morning, I work from home for a couple of hours.  Then I go to the new podiatrist.  I can't remember his name, so we will call him Dr. Feet.  I am not psychic, but I'm pretty sure I know how this will go.  New Balance and Clarks will be mentioned.  I'll bring up my side job as a shoe whore.  He won't care.  He will say, no no, Jimmy Choo bad.  I will slap him silly.  He will say Clarks.  I will say no, you can't make me.  NO NO NO.  He will force me to go to their outlet store and buy hideous mock-a-sins (no clue how to even spell that).  I will be forced to leave my post as Hello Stiletto Chapter Leader because I own such hideous beasties.  My life on Vegas in Heels will be a lie.  A very beautiful, tax deductible lie.  My sculpture garden will provide more joy to Batgirl than to me.  Sad times indeed.

If nothing else, I do hope that he uses some of that cool flesh eating acid to remove some problem areas.  I probably should also mention that I do self-surgery on my ingrowns.  (oh, you didn't want to hear about those either?  sorry.)  And that I spend most of my mornings filing off the extra layer of feet that tries to grow overnight. 

So, I expect tomorrow will be a very bad/sad day for me.  I'll keep you posted because I know that you care.  Deeply.

Comments

[magickat]

Oh my god - this was written in the most magical way! I know your feet are fug-killing you but if that hadn't happened I would never have gotten to read this awesomeness!!!