To the lowest of the low

 

 

Jason is the only person on the planet who likes my feet. 

I don't even like my feet. 

The foot is probably the most universally despised of all human body parts-- right up there with the armpit and the inner-nostril. Overworked and undermined, I have seen several girls in my lifetime scream when a boy takes off his shoes to reveal large, unkempt sweaty feet. "Ew your feet! They're so disgusting!"

It's not that my feet are deformed or that they smell bad-- I hope. It's that I have terrible circulation, and all it takes to make them bright red and incredibly unhappy is an hour or so of standing on them. My feet have always been a concern for my mother. Upon seeing me bundled in a bathrobe after a hot shower, she can be heard to exclaim in horror, "Your feet! Your poor purple feet! Oh the podiatrist! I'll call Dr. Royall!" Conversely, Kathy, my stand-partner and best friend, was delighted with my poor circulation. While Mr. Thompson droned on and on about quarter notes and fermatas she would casually reach down with her violin bow and poke the top of my foot, counting how many seconds it would take for the white spot to turn flesh-colored again. "1, 2, 3, 4..." No human foot should refuse to return normal again as long as mine does.

Now venturing down even lower.

I am in the rug business. Well, not really, because the combined effort of both Jason and my employment at the on-campus writing center couldn't pay for any decent rug. Nevertheless, I dream that I am in the rug business. Despite their poor quality and the apparent horror they cause passersby,  I value my feet and am extremely defensive about them. This feeling is intensified given the fact that in the past two weeks they have been entangled in a folding chair, scratched numerous times by Winston and had an iron bed frame dropped on them. As I look down on them in their swollen, painful loneliness, I can't help but think they might like something luxurious to walk on for a change. Rugs are a grossly overlooked source of inspiration-- the intricate patterns, the bold lines, the dyed wool-- it's art! All art! My feet may often be sweaty, or bright red, with chipped toenail polish and nails-- but by golly! They deserve a soft carpet to tread on and a feather pillow to prop them up at night. 

I am by no means a lover of feet. I could never be Dr. Royall and help cut off the corns on the crooked toes of old ladies and trim the yellow toenails of decrepit old men. However, I believe that lovely things should be embraced by every part of our bodies-- even the inglorious foot.