a foot story

I'm in a horribly mundane mood, and can't even muster a blog worthy thought. Yet, I still feel like blogging. I really hate when this happens.

But -lucky you- I sat down and brainstormed for like 35 hours and came up with a fantastic topic:

FEET

That's right, I can think of lots of stuff (or a few things, whatever) about feet. So here you go:

I'm not a foot fan. They gross me out.

I love little tiny baby feet. And I will even kiss little tiny baby feet. Little tiny baby feet are stinking adorable. But then they grow.

I will tickle toddler feet. As long as they're clean, and not sweaty or fresh out of shoes or anything, I can handle tickling toddler feet.

I force myself to cut the toenails on my Kindergartner's feet. I will only do it right after her bath, and still I have to hold back the gagging. Five year old feet just aren't kissable nor tickle-able anymore. To me. That is.

I make my husband wear socks to bed. Ok, it's his choice. But let's just say that in the beginning I strongly suggested NEVER touching me with his feet. Ever. Even by accident, while we're both sleeping. I'm sure I would wake in a horrible fit of vomitous rage. It would not be pretty. (Not that I'm particularly gorgeous when first waking up - but still.)

I'm a foot hypocrite. Because I hate wearing shoes or socks or.....any other thing... on my feet. I know, I make everyone else hide their nasty feetness, and yet I walk around sans socks. What can I say? I'm a horrible person. Deal with it.

And now, here's a foot related story (like I said, lots to say about feet):

In middle school (6th and 7th grades) they made us shower after PE. I'm sure it was because we all stunk like the barely pubescent children that we were. And if you're thinking, "Woah, I hadn't hit puberty by then - what's she talking about?!" Well, I'll tell you. I was an early developer. And I HATED it. By 6th grade I had boobs. And those little excuses for towels that they gave us in middle school just couldn't wrap around it all.

At the vulnerable age of 12, showering in PE was the worst -absolutely horridest- thing I could think of. I would wrap the tiny towel around myself, hoping that I could just squish all of my non-viewable areas inside while simultaneously stripping off my gym clothes. It was tricky. And then I had to take tiny awkward steps to the big shower so that nothing snuck out on the way. And then I'd stand facing the wall, open and close the towel inhumanly fast and call it a shower. At least I got wet.

I'm pretty sure I would be really emotionally stunted if something wonderful hadn't happened to prevent all of these nightmarish showerings. One day, I got a wart. A slimy fat wart right on my big toe.

Usually warts aren't to be praised. In fact, they are downright grotesque. But because of the blessed little thing I couldn't share a public shower. Looking back I really think that it was only fair - you know, I had to deal with boobs at an early age so I surely deserved something to get out of PE showering.

So yeah. A foot story.

Oh, and don't ever touch me with your feet, ok? Really. I might go all kung fu on your butt. And then I'd probably throw up. Or do both at the same time - which I really don't want to experience. So just keep those socks on.