This isn’t exactly new news, but my blog slacktitude has resulted in no mention of my foot being broken.
Now before you, “ZOMG, WTF,” on me, please note that my foot’s bones aren’t technically snapped into chunks of jigsaw. It’s more along the lines of being asked why you bought a new laptop and having to fess up that your illegal downloads done broke your ‘puter.
Except instead of bit torrents, I went kickboxing.
Now that I’m settled into a different city (also not mentioned in previous posts, but with an explanation in a later post), a friend here convinced me to attend a super-fun for-real kickboxing class. She was absolutely right in her assessment of my love for kicking and hitting things. After the events of last August, beating things for stress relief is high on my list of LIKEs.
The instructor strapped some gloves on me, encouraged me to wail on the heavy bag, alternating kicks and punches galore. Jeebus did it feel great! Whack! Whack! Whack! Thud.
When you land a kick to the heavy bag incorrectly, sadly, you’re gonna limp outta there.
I know what a stress fracture is, how to diagnose it, and ultimately how to heal it. What I didn’t account for is that I’m a colossal retard. In the upcoming weeks, I didn’t exactly baby my foot. I got caught up in trail running, hiking, and, ya know, wearing four-inch heels everywhere I go.
My fourth metatarsal was mostly cooperating. But then one day my big toe starting hurting. I mostly ignored it, babied it when necessary, and just went about my business. And then it screamed, “No more, beyotch!” to which I promptly sought medical attention from someone armed with more than a happy clicking finger for Google.
A doctor? Sheesh, no! I called my brother! To which I described my pain, made a joke about turf toe, and then was told to take my gimpy ass to a proper medical professional.
My handling of my crippling knee pain of 2006 cured me of my fear of doctors. That doctor read my chart then asked what was wrong. I told him the science-y name for my condition, he poked my knee and agreed, then took the x-rays that I couldn’t take myself, thereby forcing insurance to pay for my physical therapy assessment and treatment.
See thesaurus: useful, nonjudgmental, decidedly un-scary.
This time, though, I didn’t know what the frig was wrong with my little piggy. Whether it’s the fear of the unknown or not being on control of my situation or whatever other deep-rooted issue I know dang well that I have, I was not looking forward to this doctor visit. However, my desire to not be in so much pain that I wanted to hang myself by the day’s end overrode said psych issues.
The doctor took a history, didn’t judge my not seeking medical attention when I said I had two previous stress fractures, and then took a looksie at my feet. She bent, and I whimpered. She poked, and I made a velociraptor shriek. When the prodding stopped, she told me that I was one of the unfortunate folks with early onset arthritis. Oh, and my stress fracture was angry at me for being a neglectful asshole.
So, into the boot I went. Which, if I do say so myself, is quite sexy:
You know you’re jealous!
The past five weeks have lead to an enormous feeling of frumptitude. Maybe you’re comfortable wearing casual sneakers everywhere you go. But to me, not wearing heels makes me feel *so* not pretty. I can wear a plain ol’ black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, but sliding into a pair of heels makes a trip to Walmart a teeny bit less of a chore.
Yesterday I had another follow-up foot doctor appointment, where she made mini casts of my feet for some stupidly expensive orthotic inserts that will somehow keep my arthritis in check and avoid later amputation (or whatever it is that doctors do for this sort of thing). She went over the list of things I will likely never be able to do (mountain biking, spin classes, weighted squats, lunges — le sigh), and then was like, “Oh. Get used to ugly shoes. Or, ya know, I’ll have to cut that toe off.”
I did another velocirator shriek — only this was from fear of my short legs always looking fat, not from her pressing my bones.
I went home and looked in my closet, admiring all the pretty, pretty shoes I’ve accumulated in my years of being a pretty, pretty princess.
The pink slingbacks with the rhinestones that my niece picked out for me. The royal purple pumps. The cheetah-print slingbacks. The red satin pumps with the black piping and lace. The intricate woven design of my black wedges. The woven brown wedges. The badass silver slingbacks. The low black boots. The low brown boots. The brand new knee-high black stiletto boots. The nearly-new knee-high brown boots. The hooker-iffic black patent leather pumps that I’ve never even gotten to wear. And oh the collection of black sling-back heels with a 4-inch heel that I wear almost-daily.
A pair of running shoes (that I can’t use for another 6 weeks or so). A pair of trail running shoes (repeat the previous note). And two pair of flip-flops.
This does not make for a pretty, pretty princess.
Knowing that I’d have to suck it up and quit being such a brat about it, I wondered what to do with my shoes. There isn’t exactly a market for used shoes on eBay unless they’re really, really dirty. (Foot fetish people pay good money for used shoes, I kid you not!) I could always drag a bag down to Goodwill, but that seems too impersonal for something I love. None of my friends have midget feet to fit into my shoes, so there’s no paying it forward there.
Earlier today I was dorking around on Facebook when I noticed that a friend became a fan of Project Cinderella. I’m a big fan of girls feeling pretty without having to spend a gazillion dollars right before they head off to college. A quick Google search later, and I now know where to drop off my really awesome shoes for an equally awesome cause.
This is the proper home for my shoes.