The Feet That Bring You To Me

I have ugly feet. Big, flat, veiny feet. There's nothing dainty nor feminine about my dawgs! And that's so okay.

These feet have taken me places, dressed up in stilettos or barefoot. I love being barefoot. I have this soothing meditation of me walking barefoot up the winding streets of Greece in a white sundress. I can hear the percussion of wristfuls of bangles and bells around my ankles. And I can feel the heat of the sun, not just on my skin, but also underfoot from the asphalt and rocks I step on.

I have Morton's Foot, too. That's when the second toe is longer than the "big toe". I've read somewhere the French consider it a sign of intelligence. But I have also read it affects approximately 20% of the population, simply too large a percentage, in my opinion, to regard Morton's Syndrome as a mark of smarts.

Big feet are something I inherited from my mother's side of the family. Both my sisters have slim, pretty size 7s, taking after my dad's side. I used to wear my dad's boots! It was virtually impossible for me to shop for shoes in Asia, which is a zapatophile's playground. Thousands of beautifully crafted pairs of shoes in all sorts of colors and materials, strappy and heeled, unlike anything you'd find in a Megalo-Mall of America, and for under thirty bucks! Sizes 4 to 8 available. Oh, and they are small 4s to 8s. Usually, I wear a 9, but in Asia, some of the 9s I tried on felt like 8½s. By the end of my "balikbayan", I was walking into shoe stores and before looking at anything, would ask the sales staff if they carried anything bigger than size 8. Four out of five times they didn't.

I don't think I've ever been embarrassed with my feet, although people have commented they would be embarrassed if they had feet like mine. Well, I like where my feet have taken me. I've hiked through desert and forest, slipped on the wetsox for the Columbia River, laced up many funky bowling shoes, buckled into rented ski boots, paraded in peach pumps in pageants, and danced to whatever beat that was playing in whatever heel I had on.

Dancing in platforms was a nightly activity for me in the '90s. I've suffered only two major sprains requiring my use of crutches. The thing with platforms is they can never be too high. And ANY shoe will improve as a platform!

Particularly stilettos. I love the stiletto heel. There's been talk of the "new stiletto" which has just as thin and high a heel, but instead of coming to a point, the bottom of the heel remains broad. It's fashionable and chic, but it is no stiletto. I say, if you can't use it as a weapon, it's merely a pump. On the other hand, platform stilettos are to legs as the Miracle Bra is to breasts. They just make them look fabulous!

The thing with platform stilettos is that the heel can be crazy high, but your foot doesn't arch severely because of the platform. Yet, since you are towering off the ground on a base heel no bigger than a chicklet gum, your legs stay strong and curvaceous.

Your feet do take a beating, though. Especially if you walk in heels, and I did a lot of walking in heels. I remember when I was in grade school my aunts would make me feel good about my big feet because they said I would grow to be a tall girl. All the models in magazines had size 9 feet. They helped me feel that my feet were okay, and that soon the rest of me would catch up to them.

I'm 5'-2½". The same height I was when my mom bought me my first pair of size 9 boots. I liked being taller, so the first chance I got, I was wearing heeled pumps. I wore heels throughout high school. My role models for fashion and style were the girls who appeared in music videos. I loved the Bangles, and of course Madonna, but I especially loved how the women looked in Duran Duran and ZZTop videos. That's how I dressed in Grade 9.

Oftentimes, I would walk the ten kilometers from school to home. I enjoyed the freedom to explore after school, away from everybody. If I decided to spend a few extra minutes at the park, I would. If I decided to get into that nice man's car, I would. Most of the time, it was just me and the click-click of metal as my bared-down heels struck the pavement. When I passed a park, I would always take advantage of the opportunity to feel the cool grass between my bare toes. After the park, I'd slip into my pumps again, or not. Sometimes I would walk five kilometers barefoot.  Honestly, it isn't as unpleasant as granduncles talk about.

My feet were always dirty. I showered everyday and washed my feet before bed, but I still had such dirty feet. I remember seeing a picture of Juliette Lewis after Kalifornia came out, the movie where she and Brad Pitt fell in love momentarily. Her feet were positively filthy. Her laugh was audible from the pages of Entertainment Weekly as she frolicked in black and white dinginess. Sexy. Sexy. Sexy. I made up my mind after seeing that spread that a woman's most intriguing feature is a pair of dirty feet.

How did they get so dirty? Why doesn't she bother to clean them? What does she plan on doing next?

I get excited just thinking about the answers.

For a long time, I dreamt of becoming a dancer. I can stand on the tips of my toes without special ballet shoes, like Rose in Titanic. But the paintings by Degas, of blond belles in wisps of pink tulle and ribbon, gave me the impression that to be a dancer, one needed beautifully shaped feet, delicate and soft. How I wish I had someone to tell me that a dancer's feet are the most worked tools of her trade, and at the end of the day are neither pretty nor soft.

I also enjoyed volleyball. I was an unexpected force on the court. My diminutive stature positioned me as the setter in a Five-One configuration and I had a crazy floater of a serve. However, five girls towered over me, leaping to block and spike. Any arch I had on the bridge of my foot was flattened in a season.

I love athletic feet.  The network of veins look engineered to perform at extreme levels. That's living life, man.

I'd bet back in the day of hunter/gatherer, people with hooves for feet were favored. Indicated usefulness, perseverance. Or consider the nomadic life. Dainty feet meant someone's carrying you around. Some may argue that it can be regarded as a sign of status. My rebuttal is what is status if others do not believe in it? I'll walk on my own feet, and if I truly have status, it will still be there. But don't deny me the sensation of hot sand on bare soles.

I believe in Reflexology. Foot health is crucial to sustaining physical and spiritual balance. All nerves end in some part of the foot. Paths called meridians extend from toes along major organs and to the brain. Just because my feet resemble a war zone doesn't mean they get no love.

My current husband is the first person who ever said he loved my feet. He says that they are so special to him because they are what bring the rest of me to him. He calls them "Happy Feet" because I wiggle my toes absentmindedly when I am in a good mood.  And it's not like I can't get prettied up.  A couple of hours with Lupe at Kelly's Spa in the Mission Inn and my dawgs transform into candy piggies... perfection in a pair of Fluevogs.

So, however ugly, dirty, tore up, or gargantuan your feet are, just try to keep up with me ;-) and smile, we're going places!