The depreciated value of forty-three-year-old feet

It's been a while since I've tormented you with yet another photograph of my forty-three-year-old foot but I'm afraid that, circumstances being what they are, it is time for it to make another appearance. Isn't it interesting that some things increase in value as time passes while others depreciate? A 1970 convertible Dodge Challenger with 8 cylinders can be worth up to $400,000. And even though my forty-three-year-old feet cannot even begin to compare, mileage-wise, I don't believe that the going-rate on my piggies would even come close.

Hindered by the great Kickball Incident of May '13, I have been unable to wear heels for over four months. Limited to my diminutive height of 5'10'', my self-esteem plummeted. Occasionally I would consider testing out the tall-girl shoes but reality would strike as I still needed four fourth graders to heave me up off the reading rug. Sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce was a far-fetched fantasy. Getting in and out of Savannah's low-riding Honda Accent required several deep breaths, an employed regiment of rocking back-and-forth and then a fearless lunge that could result with me in a collapsed heap on my lawn. But finally, I'd had enough.

I decided to start conservatively with a pair of low, 2-inch black heels with some slender strap supports and a jaunty flower for luck. My first few steps were reminiscent of Bambi's feeble flounderings on the ice but I was soon striding along confidently. My knee didn't fold in like a cheap umbrella although, by mid-day, I began to feel some discomfort in my feet. I was determined to see this through so I soldiered on until school ended at 3:10. Victorious, I slid the shoes off and was pleased by a minimal amount of gushing blood and looked, with awe, upon the dime-sized blister that was protruding from the side of my baby toe.

Every scar has a story to tell but for some reason, no one wanted to listen to mine. With an agility that I didn't know still existed, I tossed my naked foot into the middle of my afternoon euchre game. "Gross," observed my friend, Kelly, as she dealt herself yet another bauer. Amanda sighed, realizing my attention was not focused on the game as she glanced at our losing score and Geri sympathetically snapped, "Get your nasty foot off my table." My family reacted in a similar fashion. "Touch it," I invited, "It feels like a warm gummy bear." Sydney begrudgingly obliged because she didn't want to hurt my feelings but I had to chase Savannah around the house and, even then, couldn't catch her. I kept Brad at bay because he kept threatening me with a needle.

I decided to address the growth on the side of my baby toe after a photo-taking session. We had to try three different rooms before we found the perfect lighting to accentuate the size and texture of my blister. Bear in mind...we're not professionals.  Savannah caught the proper tone of the blister but unfortunately, also captured my fat, flabby foot. Please remember that it can be quite a challenge to keep forty-three-year-old feet fit.