I’m a pretty easy-going person, but there are a few things that really irk me. The first is wet doorknobs. The second is guys who text/type “dis” and “da” instead of “this” and “the.” While I vaguely recall these terms being acceptable in middle school AIM chats, I do not think they should be used for any non-MySpace purposes.
The last thing that really bothers me is the feeling of my bare feet on any given surface. I never walk barefoot. Ever. Not even in my own kitchen. The thought of stepping on crumbs or cereal bits and then walking through a wet puddle left behind from a recent hand-washer literally makes me shiver.
A day without my slippers is a day spent living in fear. There are two instances (3, if you count stepping on a bee while walking home from the pool) that have driven me to this barefoot phobia.
The first involves Buster (surprise, surprise). It was spring break, and since I was in middle school and thus too young to enjoy the corrupt and disorderly tradition that comes later in life, I was at home. My sister Jessie and I were alone in the kitchen one morning; my mom was out-of-town, and my dad was probably at Home Depot. Buster asked to go outside, and since I cater to his every need, I got up to escort him to the lawn. Four steps later, I stepped on a broken glass jar and cut through my toe.
I hobbled back inside, walking only on my heels to keep my severed toe from dragging on the ground. I sat down in the entryway, held my foot in both hands and began to sob hysterically. Jessie mistook my shrieking for laughter and thought I was playing a prank. I bled so much that I went into shock. Everything sounded very far away, and I was sure that I would never be able to wear a toe ring again. Finally, Jessie came to her senses and called 911.
The next incident happened, ironically, during another spring break. This time, I was in high school, and so I was finally old enough to enjoy some of the finer things in life, such as spring break in Panama City, Fla. One afternoon, I was scavenging for a snack. I found a jar of queso in our hotel fridge, and even though I knew it belonged to one of my friends, I proceeded to eat it. All of a sudden, the jar slipped between my paws and shattered all over the floor. I walked through the shards of glass, probably to salvage whatever small droplets of cheese I could find. I didn’t realize that the glass had cut my feet.
Somewhat satisfied with my cheesy indulgence, I ventured down to the hotel hot tub. I hopped in, ignoring the bits of mulch and other mysterious debris floating atop the water. After about 5 minutes, I realized that the tub smelled like moldy towels so I jumped out.
The next day, my feet were so swollen I couldn’t fit them into my sandals. My friend Lucy went with me to the nearest immediate care center. The doctor was nice, but he was very foreign and I had an awful time understanding his diagnosis. He prescribed me an antibiotic and told me to keep my feet out of the sun. We then went to the store to find something suitable for my ginormous feet. I ended up buying men’s slippers because they were both roomy and durable.
I had to wear socks on the beach for the rest of the trip.
When I returned home, a girl I worked with, who had also gone to Panama City, told me that she heard a girl had gotten an STD in her feet. Wonder who that was.
Below is a picture of a lesson learned. I bought water shoes especially for this year’s spring break.