If I had a shoe store, I would call it Feet 'n' Shit. Actually, if I had any store, I think I would call it Whatever I Was Selling 'n' Shit: Toys 'n' Shit. Food 'n' Shit. Tools 'n' Shit. Pewter Figurines of Wizards Gazing Mystically Into Fake Jewels 'n' Shit.
Anyway, I just bought some cute flip flops, so I thought it was time I painted my toenails.
The trouble is that I am artless at the girly stuff like nail polish and mascara and not spewing phrases like "fuckhole dipshit" at public pools filled with toddlers and their indignant mothers. But my coworker, who says she is similarly hopeless (but still manages to convey a sense of class that I lack completely) told me a long time ago that even I could paint my toenails. All I have to do is slap the stuff on any old way and peel it off in the shower once it's dry. It's brilliant, and it works.
The only potential problem with my technique is that they look terrible if you don't get into the shower before you have to expose your feet. I was running late one day and went over to a friend's house to do yoga once when my toes looked like this, and she pointed and howled and finally choked out that it looked like I'd hacked the tips of my toes off. So I have to remember to get up in time to wash off my toes tomorrow morning.
(Hey, you know what's fun? Forgetting to eat, going out for drinks, and then coming home to write on and on about ridiculous crap like nail polish.)
Anyway, since I'm apparently committed to the writing-about-feet thing, I should also mention that my friendly friend sent me some sassy sneakers today:
I would have tried them on for the picture, but my toes are still wet. I can tell you that they look good, though. Thank you, friendly friend!
Oh, another thing about feet: Although I don't really think about my feet very much, I do kind of have issues with them.
When I was 19 or 20, I was casually seeing a sweet boy. After a few weeks it seemed like we were just on the verge of something; I could tell and I could tell that he could tell.
Then he confessed his foot fetish to me in the back of his pickup truck in the parking lot of a Kettle, of all places. He solemnly asked me to take off my shoes. I obliged, and he seemed neither excited nor disappointed, but I guess my feet were deficient because that was as far as we ever got.
I examined my feet for a long time after it was clear things were through, but aside from some minor calluses, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what was wrong. Can anyone explain this to me? (Can anyone adequately explain any fetish? m-w.com: "an object of irrational reverence or excessive devotion;" the irrational/excessive part makes me wonder.) If you have any insight, please let me know. I'm long over that boy, but I've felt a little weird about my feet ever since.
I don't think I want to talk about my feet anymore.