I hate feet.
Oh, sure, they’re nifty for walking about. I use mine every day! But I hate them. I hate the look of them. Toenails. Think skin. Heels. I get pedicures every once in a while and I despise the sensation. I feel terrible about thrusting my my feet at someone’s hands and face for filing and moisturizing and painting. It’s a te thing to do to a human.
I won’t wear sandals in the summer. I abhore summer because everyone else is wearing sandals, and I have to see their feet. My husband loves his flip flops and his Jesus mandals. He wanders around our apartment barefoot. Every once in a while I’ll look up to find his foot in his face, his toes wiggling, and him exclaiming, “look at this! Don’t I have perfect arches? Don’t I?” He laughs manically as I scream and wiggle away. You just can’t trust a redhead.
I never walk around barefoot. I like big fluffy socks that make me look like a yeti.
It is one of the reasons I long for fall. The sandals will go away. Socks shall be donned. My cowboy boots will come out. And all shall be right with the world.
