Not huge but are not tiny either. A couple sizes smaller than the most common shoe size, my feet are really quite common looking. My heals are dry with slight chapping, cracking and peeling. My toes are rather tiny—baby toenails barely exist. Sometimes my toenails are painted, and sometimes not. Sometimes I paint them; sometimes a professional paints them, which always results in a plethora of Vietnamese chatter and laughter. Perhaps my nail tech is practicing for open-mic night or translating Letterman’s monologue from the previous night for his co-worker. Surely, it is a coincidence that he laughs as he jolts, jostles, and jams my toes with the cuticle board and trimmer.
After enduring the affliction of a pedicure, I adorn my feet with narrow silver, high-sandals. This is not necessarily to make my feet look more beautiful but to distract from my true curse, cankles. Yes, it is true that I could be Hilary Clinton’s foot double with my thick shapeless ankles that meld seamlessly and unattractively straight into my calves with no sinuousness whatsoever. I am half-human/half kitchen table.
Despite my legs that could hold up an entire buffet, my husband gives my feet very little thought. Sure, he would not complain if my feet were prettier. (More attention to foot hygiene is on my list for self-improvement along with baking cookies without black smoke-emanating bottoms, removing the yellow ring off the toilet the first day I see it, and getting Christmas cards out well before Valentine’s Day this year.) But even though my feet are not gorgeous, the size of my feet was not considered when my sweetheart proposed. The arches of my feet were never examined to determine how many children I would bear. My bones were never made to crack and break to fit into tiny shoes. My feet neither help nor hinder in me in my role as a librarian. My feet get me where I need go and help me stand tall.
Today, I celebrate my big, ugly, smelly feet
