Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Feets Don't Fail Me Now

Feets Don’t Fail Me Now

By Cappy Hall Rearick
 "I did not have three thousand pairs of shoes; I had one thousand and sixty." ~Imelda Marcos

January weather means I can safely cover my tootsies with socks and boots and forget about wearing sandals or making pedicure appointments. Looking suspiciously at my winter feet, I can quickly conclude that there ain’t no such thing as pretty feet. Some feet may be in better shape than others, but even with each twinkle toe painted and decorated in garnet and black with a gamecock crowing on the biggest digit, feet remain feet and they are not cute.
My friend Lindsey has a freak big toe on her right foot. She could have gone to a podiatrist to have it whittled down to an appropriate size, but she did the unexpected instead: she gave her toe a name: She calls it Big Bertha.

Lindsey wears a size ten shoe on her left foot, but Big Bertha demands an extra size and a half, and that can get pricey. Unless Lindsey can locate another size ten person with an oversized left big toe, she might as well forget about kneeling at the altar of Manolo Blahnik or Jimmy Choo. 
Lindsey refuses to allow Big Bertha’s bizarre size to intimidate her. Other women might be embarrassed to show up at a salon for regular pedicures, but not our gal Lindsey. She has a standing weekly appointment where she struts in, pulls off her shoe, waves it over her head and shouts, “Yo! Big Bad Bertha needs a bath and a big ol’ Citadel Bulldog painted on her face!” 
B.C., (Before Cappy) my husband Babe was dating a nicely put together woman who liked to flaunt her striking figure and enormous ta-tas which she claimed to be the real deal. (Yeah, right.) She was always dressed in exquisite clothes bought on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills and her hair was coiffed every week by the famous Vidal Sassoon himself.

Babe said she was smart enough to own her own birthday balloon company. I said, “She blows up balloons for a living. Hello? That ain’t quantum physics.”

When I inquired as to why they had not taken dating to a higher level, Babe said, “She made one fatal mistake.” 

“Only one? And what was that, Mr. Perfect-Never-Made-a-Mistake?”

“Sandals. She bought sandals. That’s when I seriously considered dialing 911.”

“Why? Did she have some kind of accident?” 

He gave me a look. “911 for me. I nearly had heart failure when she said how much she paid for two straps the size of one strand of hair.”

Unlike Lindsey and her Big Berta, the Balloon Lady worshiped at the pricey altar of Jimmy Shoe, uh Choo. 

“You broke it off with the helium hellcat because she bought expensive sandals? That’s harsh, Babe.” 

He shook his head. “That wasn’t all. One look at her ugly feet in those shoes and I took off.” 
Later on, his friend Willie dated the balloon lady. One night they were going to a Chinese Restaurant and Babe warned, “Don’t let her wear sandals!” 

Willie, a few Dimsums short of a Pupu Platter, wanted to know why. “Lobster toes! If you get lucky, make her wear shoes to bed.” (Babe’s shallowness level can’t get any more horizontal.) 
Some folks have feet so stinky it makes your eyes burn. Babe’s sister is the Stinky Feet Queen. She can wash those puppies ten times a day and still ... even a box of Arm and Hammer Baking Soda won’t produce refrigerator results. If her feet could talk, they would beg for Odor-eaters. 
My friend Lorna has a stinky-footed husband. She says he goes through shoes and socks faster than Sherman through Atlanta. His stink embeds itself in his shoes, attaches to his feet and follows him around day and night as though he were Pig-Pen, the character in Peanuts. 
We are told to plant our feet solidly on the ground and by doing our part, we might keep the world standing upright. I figure if God didn’t want me to show off my feet, I’d have been born wearing serious shoes, although probably not Manolo Blahnik’s or Jimmy Choo’s.

It’s the beginning of 2013, so let’s all put our best foot forward this year. Remember, feet are our friends, so take those scaly, bumpy, calloused stinkies to the nearest nail salon to get Gamecocks, Bulldogs and Tigers painted on your Big Berthas.

Go Gamecocks!

2012 Nominee, Georgia Author of the Year

"I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say. ~ Flannery O'Connor