But that cute, oh-so-photogenic beauty mark on my big toe had been growing. And I was having some chronic foot pain. So I embraced my age of Almost 40 and did the responsible thing; I took myself to the foot doctor.
I walked into the examination room, removed my shoes, cracked some jokes with the nurse and waited on the table for the Doc. In anticipation for fondling of my limbs by strangers, my feet broke out into a cold sweat. My hands do the same thing at church right before the Sharing of Peace, because nothing says "I want only good things for you" quite like a sloppy wet palm and a slight case of hives.
My gaze fell upon my left big toe and Cindy. Much like your "period underwear", what had started as a barely noticeable dot had grown into a large brown spot that could no longer be ignored.
Another round of fresh sweat was released from my pores.
The Doc appeared in the sterile room to check out my hooves. I told him that I had been suffering from Laminitis. I figured my cowboy boots would give me away as a horse girl and we would bond on our shared knowledge of medical science, but sometimes I figure wrong. Instead, he looked at me in a concerned way- like I was misusing prescription drugs.
He donned some rubber gloves and asked what part of my house he could clean. Just kidding. He poked and prodded my foot, bent it until it hurt, and informed me that I had Plantar Fasciitis in one and the beginnings of a bone spur on the other. On the bright side, at least the gloves protected him from my foot sweat. Not that I cared at that point.
This was not the news I wanted to hear. Plus, he didn't once mention the words 'foot model'. WTH?
I made a yuck face. Almost 40 was stupid.
Then he said something that I can hardly stand to repeat. In fact, the mere thought of it makes me shudder.
He said, "You probably need to rest your feet. Maybe try a month or so of no exercise."
This man clearly does not live with me.
A.) It is winter, I suffer from S.A.D. and walking with Red Dog is one of my very few sources of joy.
2.) I'm a damn troll when I don't exercise.
45.) Bitch be almost 40. It's hard work staying in my jeans.
7886.) Did I mention it was FEBRUARY? Winters are long and everyone knows that February is one of the worst winter months.
88677.) Red Dog be crazy. She will LOSE HER SHIT without regular walks. And there is no way that Brock will do it. I've been with the man for 10 years and his motto regarding walking the dogs is "They have a yard."
Then the Doc went on to talk about shoes. I perked up. I love shoes. Maybe the conversation was going to go somewhere joyous. Shoes are a bit of an obsession with me and I have the collection to prove it. Unhealthy? Maybe. Awesome? Definitely. Sexy? Hells yes.
I started to black out when I heard him say, "Somethingsomethingsomething sensible shoes."
"What?" I asked, tilting my head and narrowing my eyes.
He repeated, "You should be wearing sensible, flat shoes. And no flip flops."
I felt a part of my soul die. It was my favorite part, too.
I took a breath to compose myself and asked, "So I need orthotics, right?"
He nodded and said, "Yes."
As I shoved my naked, sweaty feet into the styrofoam molds for my new old-lady-orthodicks, I tried to picture these things they call "sensible shoes". What would they look like? Did wedges count as sensible? Boots are definitely sensible... right? I just needed to cut back on the higher heeled ones. Peep toes still seemed sensible though.
I asked the Doc about the size of the orthotics, "What will they fit into?"
He said, "Tennis shoes."
I felt the vomit rise in my throat. Other than for purposes of exercise, I am not a sneaker kind of gal.
Jeans + Boots = I may have dried food on my shirt, but I still read Vogue.
Jeans + Sneakers = Do you like my hair scrunchie? It matches my sweater. And my socks.
He looked at Cindy longingly and continued, "I can slice that mole off right now and send it in for testing."
He seemed a little too eager for my liking.
I thought about needles, scalpels and my flesh. Suddenly, my ears started ringing and I was consumed by a cold flush. I knew that feeling. This wasn't my first rodeo; I've blacked out on many a Doctor's office floor in the past. I started to see stars. This is exactly why my gynecologist knows not to use the word 'scrape' in my presence.
My situation was all too clear. Here comes 40! And it does not look elegant in the slightest. In fact, it is more like a rabid monkey gaily throwing feces at my wrinkled, haggard face. I took a deep breath, looked at my cowboy boots and imagined trying to shove my freshly lacerated, bandaged foot in there.
I know when I have been defeated.
I said, "I'll probably need to come back another time, when I am wearing more sensible shoes. Maybe my orthotics will be ready by then."
Join me next week, when Brock and I pick out retirement homes and burial plots!