There are tiny blisters on my toes from taking my son for a walk. I’m a fool for the shoes I wear. You can ask my podiatrist, he’ll confirm it.
When I was younger, and my mom was a single, working mother, she put me in the day care in front of our apartment complex. The complex where we lived multiple times throughout my childhood. I’m not sure why we kept returning to that one, but I can recall at least 4 different apartments we lived in there.
Anyway, the daycare (I think) was owned by the same people who owned the complex and as such, they were allowed to use the complex’s swimming pool. During the summer months, we would cross the parking lot, holding the hand of the 3-4 year old in front of and behind us, and wait patiently (as 3-4 year olds are want to do) for our swimming lessons to begin. After our lesson, we’d have some free time. I remember that the bottom of the pool was paved or textured (or what ever the pool lingo is) much like the infamous “popcorn” ceilings so many people despise in older homes. Every week I would come home with some serious blisters and abrasions from the pool’s bottom. Just from walking/skipping as you would expect a kid to do who can’t quite reach the bottom.
As a desert-dweller, my body runs warm. I’m a flip-flop girl, through and through. Once I hit college, where we were given absolute freedom of footwear, I decided without much hesitation, that if it wasn’t too cold (by my standards this means pretty much February through October) I was going to be comfortably sporting a pair of flip-flops. The summer between my freshman and sophomore years, I lived in my sandals. They were Tevas and I L.O.V.E.D. them. They lasted a very long time.
I’ve had Tevas since that were never comparable to those first pair. I ended up throwing them out because they had absorbed so much water on a particularly rainy spring day that all the dirt and grime from years of wear gushed from them as though a nasty, dirty sponge. My feet were SO dirty, I had to skip my workstudy job in favor of washing my feet. Weirdest voice mail I’ve ever left. Hands down:
“Uh, Kat, I can’t come in this afternoon, my feet are dirty and I pretty much have to toss my shoes. I’ll make up the hours tomorrow.”
I’ve also had Birks and Doc Martins, which both had a certain appeal. Except when you go to slip on your Birks and miscalculate the edge–the painfully rock-hard edge that encompasses the perfect impression of your foot. Except when you realize you’re “a day late and a dollar short” for the Doc craze and they’ve since lowered their standard of production such that your [superawesomeandamazing] pair of would-be waffle-stomper sandals unravel their seems within a few short weeks.
Because of that one summer, and the years since, of wearing my flip-flops, I’ve developed not only bilateral plantar fasciitis, but more recently I was diagnosed with a few pinched nerves and tarsal-tunnel syndrome. The latter one may be partly caused by the influx of postnatal hormones running amok and wreaking havoc on my joints.
This leads me full circle to the blisters on my feet today. Had I not been wearing the blue tweed ballet slippers on my walk, I wouldn’t have gotten the blisters at all. And I wouldn’t have had cause to remissness about shoes and times gone by.