Of all the things in the world that I don’t understand, the most puzzling is the foot fetish.
It may not be the most puzzling, but still: feet are disgusting. I hate them. Especially mine.
What’s wrong with my feet? I’ll let the contents of my dresser speak for themselves. Mixed among my lotions, perfumes, hair products, and the like, a wandering eye sees Dr. Scholl’s For Her Cracked Skin Repair Cream. Glancing further to the back reveals Lamisilk exfoliating scrub, and a giant tub of Heel Rescue Superior Moisture Foot Cream. But that’s not all. Stowed in a drawer are several pumice stones, a foot file, a cooling mint lotion, and another exfoliating scrub. I also stash deodorizing foot soap in the bathroom.
I am a foot care junkie. But that’s only because my feet are so dry and cracked, it looks like I’ve never allowed them any moisture.
And they never get better.
When I was little, I always wondered why my mother had what looked like a nail file for her feet. She would sit and file, file and sit, and I would watch. I hate rough textures and the sound of rough textures colliding, so while I was unsure as to what sort of situation warranted such scraping of the feet, watching and listening to this act was nothing shy of excruciating.
For years, I kept my mother’s feet at an arm’s length. I didn’t understand her disturbing ritual until high school, when I took notice of my own feet. Dry, rough, cracked, just like hers. I figured that with lotion my problems would go away.
Absolutely not.
And so I invested in my own foot file and began the process of frantically scraping away all of the dead skin on the bottom of my feet and then some. I’d scrape and scrape and scrape, then apply lotion.
No results.
I invested in the various pumice scrubs. Then I’d scrape, followed by a liberal dosage of my foot cream du jour.
Still, my feet persisted.
The next time I tried a pumice scrub followed by lotion, then scraping after the lotion sat for awhile, then another coat of lotion.
If my feet were this moist, why were they still drier than the Sahara desert in the late summer?
I certainly didn’t make the situation any better for myself. Despite my intense hatred for my feet, I still insisted upon shoving them in the highest heels, the strappiest sandals, the floppiest flip flops. My disgusting feet, naked toenails, cracked heels, on display for the world to see.
Even worse, when I would take off my shoes in the presence of others, I would immediately tuck them under my legs or just generally say, “I hate my feet. Don’t look at them.”
Because that doesn’t draw attention to them at all.
I moved recently, and when a friend was helping me unpack, we were putting things on my dresser when she noticed the giant tub of cracked heel cream. As I have a system for arranging my hair products, lotions, body sprays, perfumes, and deodorant in a way that is most conducive to my frequency of their use, I placed the embarrassing lotion in the front. My friend noticed and said, “Do you really want a guy to come over and see a giant thing of foot cream on your dresser?” She tucked it in the back, behind my floral and fruity scented Bath and Body Works body lotions, a more socially acceptable form of moisturization.
It remains there, hidden from immediate view, although the giant pump is hard to miss. I use it with scorn, cursing my awful, disgusting feet.
But my feet always manage to get the best of me.
A few weeks ago, the cracking was so bad that the skin broke apart, causing a very, very painful tear on my heel. I couldn’t walk without a limp. I mercilessly applied my lotions and attempted to scrape my pain away, but it only worsened.
The pain went away after a few days. I went home during this time and cried to my mother about it, who surprised me with a foot care set. The following weekend I gave myself a foot bath. I stepped out of the bathtub and ended up on the bathroom floor, placing a fresh hole in the drywall with either my head or my elbow. A cruel joke played on me by my devious feet, holding moisture for the first time in my life.
Once they dried off, they were still as cracked and disgusting as ever.
I think I give up.
~Valerie Williams
valerieleewilliams@gmail.com
Philadelphia, PA
