(Apologies for the delay, my three loyal readers. Vacation and general life chaos have been time consuming. Per your request, I'm back in the blogging saddle.)Feet are ugly. Home to toe jam, nail fungus, bunions, callouses, corns and hammer toes. While mine don't suffer all these maladies, they did elicit a strong reaction from my first pedicurist. She called over three women to witness the extent of my callouses, while shrieking in a language I didn't understand. It was horrifying.
But a pedicure is just putting lipstick on the pig. Razor off the callouses and pumice my heels , but three runs later and sandpaper feet return. And there's nothing to be done (short of surgery) for the sweet bunion forming on my right foot. And the occassional missing toenail and blisters just goes without saying for a triathlete. (See above blister, post Ironman Florida.)
As I bemoaned my ugly feet, a kind soul told me, "Your feet have a resumé." I was taken aback.
Why did I care what my feet look like? A lifelong athlete, they have crossed multiple Ironman and marathon finish lines. Pedaled endlessly on my bike. Ran around tennis courts, danced through endless ballet classes and even high kicked on my college pom squad. Of course they are not the Giselle Bundchen of feet. They're barely Howard Stern.
So as I give myself a Swiss Family Robinson self-pedicure, (Wusthauf knife and sand block from Lowe's) I have a new appreciation for my gnarly wheels. It's not about how they look, it's where they're going.
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