Tuesday, August 1

Open letter to my feet


I am so sorry for this weekend. I was mean to you and I had no right to be.

Blame the patriarchy. And my occational compliance with its demands.

Okay, just blame me. I gave in and I knew better.

See, sometimes you have to get prettied up and flip-flops or magenta sneakers just won't do. I have a pair of sensible orthopedic flat mules in my closet that are comfortable despite the fact that they occasionally, if you step just right, emit a fart noise from deep within the foot-to-shoe meeting point. I also have a pair of pointy-toed heel-strap mules with a cute little 1.5-inch kitten heel.

Guess which I chose to wear for a good six hours (just six hours? I am a complete wuss) Monday? Darling feets, I supposed you needn't guess. I can tell from your pulsing and reluctance to touch any surfaces without emitting silent screams of agony that you know all too well which footwear I chose.

Again, I'm sorry. When I go for months and months without dressing up, I tend to forget just how excruciating the recuperation process can be after a day of donning even slightly upscale footwear. I watch What Not to Wear and I revel in the self-loathing-driven self-improvement process that infallibly includes a transition from comfortable footwear to shoes that are cute as hell but not exactly practical for women who, say, walk around for a living.

Stacy London insists that pointy-toed kitten-heel shoes are comfortable, but I've yet to meet a pair that didn't feel like a vat of hydrochloric acid by the end of the day. Perhaps I'm not shopping in stores that are upscale enough.

You know what would be really handy? — If I could just bind my feet up in really cute shoes and have people carry me around on some sort of stretcher ... no! a rickshaw! so that I didn't have to actually move myself around or be independently mobile in any way. That would be awesome. Then I could wear all the cute shoes in the world and everything in my life would be perfect, because, really, my body parts are merely ornamental.

You'd be up for that, right? Less work for you, and you could just be accessories and not have to do any work but looking cute, which is a full-time job in itself. After you had your role carved out, I'd get to work on these arms. There's no reason why I should have to use them when I could just figure out a way to drape them in painful fabric and contraptions to make my body look as synthetic and unnatural as possible.

Think it over and get back to me,



Blogger phallicpen said...

Hey. So that's what cancer looks like.

Tue Aug 01, 01:08:00 AM  

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