NEWS TO ME

I’m sitting alone on a park bench, tired, so tired from endless, useless shopping. My shoes burn. I take them off and slip them under the bench, wiggle my toes so they can breathe fresh air. The grass feels cool, delightful. With no hesitation, no embarrassment, I slide off my knee high nylon hose and let the green stuff caress my feet. Their white nakedness astounds me.

Prams, skate boarders, bikes disappear, go into their own space. Mine is here, with my feet. Hopefully my lips don’t move as I start a conversation with them. ‘Hey, Big Toes! How come the left one is bigger than the right? I never noticed that before.’ An ant runs across my instep. ‘Get the hell off my foot. Busy yourself elsewhere.’ One shake, two shakes and it moves on to other pastures.

The grass exudes a green that grows darker, deeper as I watch. It pillows my arches. I look around, see nobody watching, and rub them gently. Not a passerby glances at me, clucks her tongue at my rudeness. Let one single cluck come my way and I will put the Evil Eye on the clucker.

How come the toe next to my biggest one (the one with a slight case of fungus) is longer than the big toe? It is so skinny I believe it is empty except for a bone and a blood vessel, maybe a little calcium. If it is empty of veins, no tissue, no fat, what lets it wiggle, sometimes get numb?

I rub the right foot and compare it to the left. Yikes, there’s a water blister ready to pop. I don’t have a band aid with me. Trouble looms. The toe next to it is long, but not as long as the other second toe. My feet are freaky. The three not yet examined stare at me. They are a sliding board to the little toes that are so small there are no toenails to cut. When I put red polish on the other four, I dab the little ones too and nobody knows my secret.

The podiatrist told me I have a Planter’s Wart under my heel and it should be removed. It doesn’t hurt and since I didn’t plant it, I let it alone.

The last shoe salesman to whom I almost crawled in search of great looking flats, threw me a curve. The arch on my right foot has fallen so no flat will hug the foot. He hands me a card and recommends a place where I can be fitted for a single arch. It goes in my purse until I am out of his sight and then it is out of my purse, into the closest trash can.

The 7 N I wore as a young person became 7 ½ N about 8 years ago and the last shoes I didn’t buy were 8 1/2 M. Manufacturers must be playing tricks on the public, forcing us to reconsider sizes. I’m not fooled. The 8 1/2 M did feel comfortable but only came in black and I wanted tan. No sale.

Time to take a chance, go home. I put my knee high nylons back on my tootsies that I pray will fit into my shoes still under the bench. I shake them and two ants run away.

With only the tiniest of smiles on my face, I hum, ‘Feet, feet, do your duty. Here comes Bella, a faded beauty,’ and I walk gingerly back to the parking lot.