Pride Goeth Before a Fall
Mon., July 9, 11:33 AM
No, I haven't fallen, at least not yet. Furthermore, you may remember that I consider vanity a survival trait. When I give up caring about how I look, that will be the end. Anyhow…
As a child and a young adult, I had dainty little feet and narrow ankles, and I was rather proud of that. I could buy all kinds of cute shoes; even the cheap ones looked good. I bought expensive nylons (in those days of two-piece non-stretchable hosiery). If one has thin, limp hair and a misshapen spine, one grasps at straws — like pretty feet.
By the time I got married, I had a regular shoe outlet and a salesman who knew me. He would phone me when my brand and size came in and, if I wanted them, he would put them aside for me. It was a good deal for both of us. He provided me with the silver lace shoes I wore when we got engaged; the ivory fabric heels for my wedding; and the golden snakeskin for my going away outfit. And, lemme tell ya, the purses matched!
Having brought a substantial shoe wardrobe with me, I had no need to spend my Husband's money on shoes, which was probably a good thing. With my third pregnancy, my feet became very swollen. My size fives had become sevens. Although the puffiness eventually went down, my feet were never as tiny as they had been before. Eventually I gave my shoes to friends who could still wear that size.
I still was not a sneakers kind of gal. My shoes were a little more conservative, but I still had nice feet, and I took care of them. I did my own pedicures — after all, I could always reach my feet as long as I wasn't pregnant. When the situation was appropriate, I walked around barefoot.
Husband, on the other hand, has never cared about his feet. Despite my offers of assistance, he just stood in the shower and that was it. Without going into detail, I will just say it was not a pretty sight. About fifteen years ago, I took him to the podiatrist. The doctor treated the initial condition, and I continued to bring Husband in, to have his feet checked, to have his nails cut, and so forth, even though Medicare would not pay for routine care. We had to cancel the last appointment because Husband had broken his hip. But at least I learned something about how this would work.
I had consulted this same podiatrist about a crooked toe, but he didn't impress me very well. He had no substantial advice for me. (He managed to cut my toe instead of the nail…) I would wear roomier shoes and be very careful about how socks fit; my feet were still fine, even if not quite as pretty. When I developed diabetes, I told my own doctor that I would take care of my feet myself, because I do a better job — for less money.
Ah, vanity, vanity. Two problems arose that I couldn't handle. First, my eyesight became worse and worse, and I was cutting my nails by feel. Secondly, despite all my care and keeping my sugar in check, I am beginning to experience diabetic neuropathy. It is still very light (hypochonriacs diagnose early, y'know). Nevertheless, I have to take care of these feet, but I still don't trust the podiatrist.
U.D. says, “let me treat you to a pedicure.” That worked so well, I believe I will suggest it to my doctor. It was very clean, and the pedicurist listened to what I was saying: “the skin is very thin; do not try to cut it.” My feet felt wonderful afterward — and my nails got polished as well. I've learned something most of you knew already.
Oh, yes, one more thing: this lovely little shop gives senior discounts on Tuesdays. Good call, Daughter.
