Thursday, December 09, 2004

the agony of da feet

For the past few months, I've been bothered by pain (sometimes sharp, sometimes dull) in each foot, specifically the area near the arches. Sometimes, it gets to bad I feel I can hardly walk, but I've learned to ignore it and just let it throb. Walking is generally a bitch now, because after a few minutes I feel like the true little mermaid, walking on knives before turning into foam.

I have theories, of course, pending a visit to a podiatrist (but I don't put too much value in self-diagnosis anymore, ever since I misdiagnosed myself with cancer at age 12):

1. It is gout. Except that my joints are not inflammed, my big toe is fine, and I think my uric acid level is okay (I could be wrong of course). My joints are fine.

2. This is something most people getting older get but do not complain about. Except that it stands to reason that there must be someone who did bitch about it, someone who did something about it, someone who marketed the solution, and people who use the thing. I've been around older folk and I have an idea of the usual ailments associated with aging. This isn't necessarily it. But I am getting older and that's fine.

3. I need new shoes. Okay, this is should be the most obvious, but it does puzzle me. There are currently 4 pairs of shoes I favor: black Magnum boots, HK zip-up ankle boots, nice conservative leather shoes and my orange pair of rubber shoes. I switch among them during the week. Never had a problem with any of them, until now. My Magnums and leathers are supported, my zip-ups and rubber shoes are not. Do I need Dr. Scholl's® Tri-Comfort® Orthotics or just better arch-supporting shoes?

4. Exotic disease. In a tragic, silly way, like the way tubercolosis was romanticized as consumption because so many writers suffered and died from it. But consider:

Image A: Writer is writing, midnight. Pauses from furious scrawling of life's work to cough, violently, spitting red on his pages. Woman rushes in, sees author coughing up blood on the floor, holds him as he trembles.

"It's consumption, my love," he says, with a pained grimace. "We pay for what we write with blood."


Image B: Writer is writing, midnight. Pauses from furious scrawling of life's work to massage his feet, violently, spitting curses at his arches. Woman rushes in, sees author rubbing his soles, asks if he wants some lotion.

"It's my arches, my love," he says, with a sheepish look. "Fuck, they hurt."


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