Tonight I went to a lovely barbeque for my immediate department. There were ten of us there, eight women and two men. Because of the lovely summer weather, I had ample opportunity to look at assorted sandal-clad feet.
All, on the women at least, were soft. Pretty. Pearly polish in soft, summer shades.
Perfect. You could serve meals on them.
Then there's me. I ruin my feet on purpose, swab them with rubbing alcohol to toughen the skin and reduce the occurrence of blisters. Remove dry skin patches only when it seems I must do so to avoid callous. I have ugly, ugly feet.
I have feet that climb mountains. I have feet that slog through puddles at 6:00 am. I have feet that totter sexily in four inch heels at work, and feet that pound the trail in boots once work is done. I have feet that take me places I haven't seen before. I have feet that are not afraid.
(and yeah, I haven't blogged in five months, and now I want to talk about FEET? Whatever, at least I feel like blogging again....)