Everything There Is To Say About Hurt Feet Except For What I Forget To Say


Do your feet hurt? And, come to think of it, who do your feet hurt? And if who, then what do they hurt? You might choose to stop them if they’re hurting someone else. Whether you want to do that depends on your history together. If your foot is emotionally hurting them instead things are also going to be more confused and difficult. Expect a long session of being scolded for not taking their side in your argument with them.

If your feet hurt you then the problem is more immediate. Giving your feet a good talking-to may be appropriate. There are times when you could want your feet to hurt. Those are when having a small but not provable ailment will get you out of something. For example, if there’s a spirit in the air that someone should move the fold-out couch up seven flights of stairs. If your feet are starting to hurt, then don’t waste time. Hang around eight-story buildings and make friends who have couches. You may as well get the credit for being totally willing to help, if only your feet allowed.

If you have got sore feet, there’s a process to follow. Check first that they are your own. Perhaps you were confused this morning and put on someone else’s by mistake. Perhaps you put them on deliberately. Are you one of those rotters trying to mess up a good thing for everyone else? We don’t need that. Why are you being that person? Did they hurt your feet so now you’re hurting your feet in retaliation? How does any of that make sense?

Which part of the foot hurts affects what to do about it. The foot has many parts, including the ankle, the toes, the arch, the support, the drawbridge, the toll booth, the pier, and the starling. Consult a team of expert engineers to identify structural weaknesses. If necessary they might design the complete replacement of your foot, perhaps with one of those elegant new cable-stayed feet. These can be most lovely with their long, graceful tapering curves of supporting wires. They’ll draw to your foot steady traffic of grateful tourists. You’ll want to dress appropriately. You’ll expect to find me make some crack about footbridges. That would be silly. It’s more profitable to have freight tunnels under your ankles. Fund this new foot with thirty-year construction bonds financed by tolls.

Should there be spare money it’s also a good idea to bring in a team of inexpert engineers, who’ll be funny to watch. You can get a team of inexpert engineers going for hours by pretending to not be certain which ones are your feet. You can ask them to prove those on you are actually your feet. Make sure you have your original receipt on foot lest they nab you for Grand Theft Navicular. That last joke was researched and is therefore funny. Ask if you’re supposed to identify with feet simply because you were physically attached to them. Should they instead be your feet because of the strong emotional connection you have with them? If they say “emotional connection” then grin. You have them. Point out how good the cat’s feet feel when you’re half-awake and the cat is patting your belly. Watch the inexpert engineers try to claim they were supposed to help the person the next house over.

If you rule out complete structural replacement of the foot then it’s on to repairs. There are several routes to fixing a sore foot. For example, you can apply pressure to it. If that doesn’t work, try removing pressure on it. You can try applying heat to it. If that’s no good, try not applying heat to it. You can go on pretty near forever trying to be sure whether the other approach would work better. If it keeps you occupied and feeling productive that alone is an accomplishment and you shouldn’t ignore that. There are all sorts of body parts that you have that aren’t doing as much. What’s important is the sense of participation.

Above all else, though, do remember that in 1923 BF Goodrich sold almost half a million Zipper Boots. This has nothing to do with your situation, but it is something researched, and therefore, is also funny.

The Boot: And How I Got It


I need to preface this by explaining I’m a big fan of clothes. I think they’re one of the top ideas humanity has come up with. I’m not sure which is exactly on top. Clothes, the equality of people before the law, any scene where Homer Simpson gives a false name, and the curried tofu the farmer’s market on the west side of town has are in the top ten. I’m happy to wear most any kind of clothing. If I run across one while at home I’ll just toss it on, which works out better in winter.

There is one point at which this clothes-appreciation stops. That point is my feet. Not socks. I retain a love of socks even though I am still afraid to read about their history. They belong to the class of clothes that feel wonderful to put on, to have on, and to take off, along with bathing suits and long underwear. They don’t feel so good when they’re wet or have pebbles in them, but that is the fault of the water or pebbles and not inherent to the socks themselves. Also not so good if they have holes, but that’s again not the fault of the socks. Ask a pair of socks to vote on whether they should have holes or not and they would flop over, helpless in their inanimate sock natures. But I expect they’d want to have only the one authorized hole for slipping the entire foot in. I almost wrote “whole” foot there, but I didn’t want to distract people by thinking of foot-holes. That’s unsettling, which socks are not.

No, my problem is with shoes. I say it’s the fault of shoes. I’ve owned literally more than a dozen shoes and they’ve all been made of pain. Some just a little bit of pain. Others, especially boots, are vast, highly organized networks of intensely concentrated pain. Shoe-makers insist the problem is that since I am tall, I have feet that are large, toe-to-heel, and also rather more curved than the average. So either my big toe or my … part of the foot on the other side of the big toe … falls outside the normal bounds of a shoe. I say the shoe-makers are at fault, for installing in every pair of shoes ever made small, pneumatically fired mallets battering every part of my foot every moment that I wear them. So I’m always finding excuses to take my shoes off. “Why, wouldn’t it be impolite to wear my shoes in your house?” “We’re going to be on this plane nearly two hours, why not slip my feet out?” “Oh, I’m at the hipster barcade so much it’s almost like home, I can leave my shoes behind.”

Yes, in time, I get used to the pains of any particular pair of shoes and they get familiar enough to be sort of pleasant-ish. And that lasts for minutes, because that’s when the soles start to collapse and I end up walking on the pile of jagged spikes ordinarily hidden in them. Then I go on for another couple months hoping something will turn up. Meanwhile the shoes grow holes large enough to let my toes through and if you think I’m exaggerating this I will include a picture of my recently-retired boots unless it turns out I’m lazy.

My several-years-old pair of boots, which have cracks along their toes and which have almost come loose from the heels, which are shredded things anyway.
What it takes to get me to stop wearing a pair of boots: find a pair of boots not just with lots of holes in them but also that don’t even point in the same direction.

So I went shopping for new shoes which I figured wouldn’t be better but would at least be different. This is not a metaphor. There was this promising rubber pair that went up nearly to my knees and had no laces. But it was too tight and as I tried taking it off I realized a cartoon might happen. Society escaped without a pair of size-12 knee-high rubber missiles firing from the shoe store towards the half-price calendars kiosk. At another store, another day, I tried one and found … something … wonderful.

They didn’t hurt! My feet went in and no particular part of my body was in agony. They just felt warm and as waterproof as you can tell from inside a Payless Shoe Store in the wing of the mall I never go to because there’s no bookstores there. It’s a wonder. I bought the shoes as fast as I could and I’ve just been delighted ever since. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

My several-days-old pair of boots, or at least several-days-in-my-ownership boots, which are still even shiny and only have a little dirt on them because it was so much fun stepping in a puddle and not getting cold and wet from that.
I’m sorry to spend so much time talking about boots but you have to understand these ones don’t hurt me endlessly when I have them on and that’s an exciting development. I mean, I even got to step in a puddle of slushy water and my feet didn’t come out cold and wet and more miserable and when does that even happen? Never, I tell you, never! PS: See how not-lazy I am?

The shoes are a size 14. That’s bigger than I’ve ever worn before. It’s a size more generally associated with kangaroos who play basketball. It’s large enough if I ever took my boots off inside, say, a Best Buy I’d be able to sneak a Smart TV or a sales associate or maybe the water fountain out in them. I’ve never seen size 14s in a normal shoe store before and I may never see them again. I don’t care. I have shoes that work as shoes. I may never take them off again, except that it feels so good to take them off.

Another Blog, Meanwhile Index

Although the Another Blog, Meanwhile index rose seven points over the trading day there’s little reason to think it’s because anyone was doing anything not connected to the panini-press debate. So few people were paying attention to what the index was doing that it might well have risen seven points entirely on a stiff breeze. Someone broke the George Foreman grill.

97

My Poor Wrist


My love organized a pinball tournament. That goes kind of like you might imagine: find a bunch of pinball machines (important! Must have!) and a bunch of pinball players (very important! Absolutely must have!) and then have the players play the games. Then keep track of who won. We held it in the local hipster bar, the one where our home pinball league meets.

It’s a natural place for pinball tournaments because there’s nobody there who has a key to open up a machine and get a stuck ball loose. Nor is there any way to fix it in case any mechanical parts on the complex, 20-year-old machines malfunctions, even if someone knows what to do and has the parts to do it to. It seemed to make more sense when we started out. Oh yeah, it’s right near home, that’s the important thing. Yes, when we got there the roof was leaking and half of the machines were turned off for fear of electrocuting players. But we were able to talk the bar into letting us turn on the machines if we promised not to have anybody die on them.

The tournament ran a little long. We expected the contest to take about four hours and it looks like it’s wrapping up sometime in 2018 instead. This happens. We had expected about fifteen people to show up, and instead everybody in Michigan who has ever played pinball even one time participated. But running long isn’t a serious problem. Punchy exhaustion makes for much funnier play anyway. Nobody got electrocuted enough to complain.

But the tournament’s got me particularly exhausted. I took the responsibility of writing out the slips that said which two players were going to play which one machine. By hand. In actual handwriting. This is more handwriting than I’ve done since 2002, cumulative. I stopped handwriting for a good reason: nobody in the world can read it, even when I do my neatest, most careful block-letter writing. I mean careful for me. My handwriting starts out majestically neat, printer-sharp characters with ruler-straight lines and graceful curves. But it degrades, naturally. By about four characters in I’m lucky if a vertical and a horizontal stroke for the same letter appear in the same word, or at all. Occasionally there’s little squiggles that aren’t any figure that has ever appeared in any human symbolic representation. I tell people who ask that this is the well-known Greek letter “ksee” and mathematicians use it all the time. (This part is not a joke. Mathematicians really do have some made-up Greek letters we use.)

And it doesn’t help that we all stopped reading hand-written stuff in 2004 except for Christmas cards and checks from parents. Even if I wrote legibly nobody could read it anyway, from want of practice. I realize this challenges conventional definitions of “legible” but I’m too tired to write out why I’m right so just take it as given.

Also I tend to write small. They’ve been trying to break me of that habit since middle school, when I put a 150-word short-essay answer on a single line of ruled paper and the teacher marked it down because I went on for 180 words. That doesn’t affect my neatness any. But it makes it frustrating when I’m writing to be ready by people who didn’t bring their Scanning Tunneling Electron Microscopes with them to the pinball tournament. I have to make myself write larger, such as by using pens with irritatingly fat line widths. Each letter gets to be, like, five times as hard to write. Filling out a card saying two people with long names were playing “Tales of the Arabian Nights” involves as much exercise as jogging for twenty minutes, and all that strain went into my wrists.

So I figure to finish the year by spreading my resting my palms on a cushion of feathers floating on styrofoam peanuts in a pan resting atop a dense fluid, the kind they put laser interferometers on. I may take my wrists off altogether until they’re feeling quite right again.

I didn’t win in the tournament, or even manage to place in the top three-quarters of the group. Don’t cry for me; I was only participating for the fun of it. And it was fun. I got this little iPod app to draw the names and games for this kind of tournament play and it’s even more fun if you have more names entered in there. And I got my reward anyway. I was able to make people entering the hipster bar where I entered worry that they had to pay a cover charge. If my love runs a tournament again I’ll collect old CDs from my friends and set it up as the merch table. Mostly, though, handwriting: I’m glad we’re smarter than that anymore. Next tournament I’m getting rubber stamps made for each player and game. Stamping things doesn’t strain the wrist nearly the same way, right?

Generally Updating Things (Back Edition)


I know people worry about my health. Sometimes I even consider worrying about it too. But to give an update: after a couple days of rest and Aleve and therapeutic twitching and whimpering, my back no longer feels like it’s been hit by a truck picking a fight with me in a bar. It has advanced to the point that it feels like the truck saw me, and then slammed me against the wall. Then it called in a hitman. The hitman then rushed over, sized me up, and composed an EP-length album that went triple platinum. Then the triple platinum discs were grabbed and smacked against my spine repeatedly. While this is still generally fitting the description of “hit by a truck”, being slugged repeatedly by decoratively-sculpted chunks of platinum is a much better sort of truck hit than before. And, not to brag, but I have walked up and down several different flights of stairs since Thursday. Things are looking up, although I must admit, I’m not looking with them because that kind of hurts too.

What I Think Of Whatever It Was I Just Got


I don’t know why they want this sickness reviewed. What the heck. There’s a chance for a $250 Amazon gift certificate, right?

OK, so, this past week’s worth of sickness has been a real treat. The high point, by volume, has to be the bug I caught on Monday that we dubbed “stomach flu”. That’s a cute, friendly name, evoking as it does the 20th Century’s greatest killer, against stiff competition. But you know the kind of bug it is. You start out the day feeling fine. Then in midafternoon you realize how appealing it would be to sit still and disgorge a two-inch-thick layer of sweat. That done, the next task is to not move for eighteen hours. The alternative, moving, runs the risk of your body exploding like a paintball capsule only worse in every possible way. And of course the rotation of the Earth about its axis becomes too fast-paced and irregular to deal with.

The bug must be awarded style points for choosing to wait until I was visiting my love’s parents to take real effect. Not only could I be sick, and worry that I was making a horrible mess in someone else’s bathroom, but it carried just the hint that somehow I had got food poisoning from their pack of store-bought Dutch windmill cookies. (They weren’t actually Dutch windmill cookies, but I forget what we actually had. I think it might have been sugar cookies. But those are much less funny to get food poisoning from, if that’s even possible.) So the cure for this was to go throw up in my car, and sleep for 36 hours, without getting any less tired.

That all would have been hardly worth mentioning if it hadn’t piggybacked on the week’s other bodily complaint, though. That was some lower back pain. I run a little stoic, and even after a pretty lousy week I don’t want to make too much of it. But the ache started out last Friday morning, got so bad by Saturday that I even said something about it, and then started to fade again. Then this morning I was showering, and coughed, and it came back in full force. I don’t want to give up coughing in the future. I’ve had a nagging cough going on since 1998 and it’d be a shame to lose that. But if showering and coughing is going to give me this kind of backache I’m just going to have to give one of them up. I guess it’ll be coughing, since I don’t need to be less pleasant to be around than I already am.

To give some idea what it feels like, my lower back feels as if it’s been hit by a truck. I don’t mean that it feels like a truck ran into me in traffic. I mean it feels like a big 18-wheeler, the kind with a trailer and some sticker on the back promising that this trucking company gives no aid or comfort to the enemy, no way, noticed my distracted eye in a bar. And then the truck, a touch belligerent-drunk, stormed over to demand I explain myself. I’m never good in these sorts of situations. I answer something like “huh?” The truck overwhelmed the friends trying so hard to hold it back. Then it pushed me up against the change machine that doesn’t give change for $5 bills printed since 2008. It punched my spine just above the tailbone, twice. And then kicked it for good measure. The truck’s friends promised it’s normally not like this and offered to buy me a drink. But I only had a diet Coke that the bar refills for free anyway. The truck got in one more punch before it could be coaxed over to the other side of the bar and berate the karaoke machine. That is the kind of “hit by a truck” it feels like.

I’m not looking for sympathy, though you’ll notice I’m publishing this where anybody can see anyway. But the ache has been a chance for me to discover all sorts of things I can do while standing like someone who’s impersonating Groucho Marx without having ever seen Groucho Marx or any impersonator of Groucho Marx. It turns out this is nothing. Or if I do have to bend the slightest non-Groucho-Marx bit, how much I can get done by groaning about the pain oh the pain oh dear lord why are there steps in this house.

To sum up: truly effective sequence of ailments. Would not buy again. Would not recommend except to some people I’m feuding with. I’m not going to win the gift certificate either, I bet.