What a Croc

Well, one of my worst nightmares has come true.

Several months ago, my feet started to hurt a little. Nothing major; I just had a few foot cramps and my toes felt a little sore here and there. My solution: Buy shoes one half size larger. I thought perhaps my feet had just joined my ass in the "Let's Get BIGGER!" campaign. So I started buying size 9 shoes. This didn't help the pain. And then, a few weeks ago, the pain got much worse. I would put on my favorite, comfortable, reliable Naughty Monkeys and would wince in pain. I knew something was terribly wrong. Then there were the horrendous foot cramps and the pain waking me up at night. It was time to go see the doctor.

Sitting in the doctor's office, I am fairly confident. Yes, my feet are killing me. But there must be a simple explanation. A simple cure. The doctor calls me in and asks me a series of questions including, "Have you bought any new shoes lately?" I snicker at her thinking that, as a woman, surely she can't be serious. We girls buy new shoes as often as the wind shifts, no? As I notice she isn't returning my knowing look, I glance down at her feet. They look as though they have been dipped in chocolate and left to harden. A big blob of brown shoe covers her feet. I'm sure they are comfortable and perfectly reasonable for her line of work. But paired with her pleated khakis and baggy sweater, she may as well have been a dude. But I digress.

Six X-rays and 4 vials of blood later, the doctor gently informs me that I have arthritis in my two big toes. She points out the fuzzy white spots on the bony image in front of me with confusion. "You're too young for this," she says. I blink in response. She asks to look at my feet again (the third time in half an hour), as if she is going to find some miracle explanation in my chipped toenail polish. For on the surface, my toes and feet look fine. No redness, no swelling; just the undeniable urge to be placed into some kickin' heels. But on the inside...sonofabitch do they hurt. The two big toes...the first Little Piggys...feel like they are broken.

The doctor tells me that we will have to wait for the blood tests to come back to see if I have Rheumatoid Arthritis, Lupus, or some other degenerative disease. In the meantime...sweet Jesus...she tells me not to wear heels. I am to wear tennis shoes or other flat, comfortable shoes. Like Crocs. LIKE CROCS?!? Have I died and gone to that special place that Satan sends the people even HE thinks are too terrible? Double-yoo Tee Effff!

"But my heeled shoes are my essence," I respond very matter-of-factly. She was not impressed.
"You mentioned that you wear Asics to work out in. You should probably just wear those for now."

My sweaty gym shoes? She seriously wants me to wear my sweaty-ass gym shoes to work, to happy hour, to dinner, to church. I begin to measure how far away the waste basket is, as I am certain that I am about to vomit. I look at her with puppy eyes, hoping that she will take back her insult. She doesn't. I leave the office deflated, confused, and unsure how to function.

I go home to rebel. I begin to put on a pair of heels and say out loud to my dog, "I'll show her!" I can't even get my foot all the way in and the pain starts to shoot up my foot. And then I fall down in pain. The shoes that used to bring me so much happiness have now hurt me badly. I look at them as if they have unrightly slapped me across the face. How could they? I love them; why would they do this to me?

I wait somewhat impatiently (what exactly is an unreasonable amount of voicemails to leave your doctor?). Finally, the doctor with the reasonable shoes calls me with my blood test results: all normal. So I have some standard form of arthritis and she wants me to see a Podiatrist. My feet are sick and they need a special doctor of their own.

I say "okay," and hang up. I look down at my feet which are sporting a somewhat decent looking fashion sneaker, and wonder what the future holds for them. Certainly I will never do this to them:

So I will take on this Podiatrist and tell him to do whatever it takes to get my feet dressed appropriately. In the meantime, I will continue to pout and feel sorry for myself and the beautiful shoes that fill my closet.