Ugly Feet

Fredda Rosen

Word Count 782

My nephew was getting married on the beach. 

“You’ll have to walk through the sand,” his mother informed me. “No need to wear shoes.”

No need to wear shoes? 

I’m 76 and I’d sooner go topless than barefoot. My boobs aren’t half-bad, but my feet are a misshapen mess. 

My toes are curled and slanted and have bumps on the top. My feet sport hammer toes, corns, and calluses, and the only reason they don’t have bunions is because I had them removed in two arduous surgeries a couple of decades ago. I long ago gave up pedicures because of the lipstick-on-a-pig phenomenon. There’s nothing that can make my tootsies presentable. 

My husband was unperturbed about the wedding’s footwear strictures. “What’s the big deal?” he asked. 

His feet have a few bumps, but are otherwise unremarkable, and he gives them no attention beyond a periodic clip of the toenails. My naked feet require a trigger warning.

Looks are one thing–and shoes are another. Stilettos and platforms belong to my long ago past, but I had to give up kitten heels as well. Ballerina flats are too narrow for me. I have a pair of low-heeled leather boots that are comfortable and some soft-sided oxfords that I bought in an array of colors. They are ugly enough to pass for cool, according to my daughter.  

Mainly I wear sneakers. I had a style that fit and alternated among several pairs, but when they wore out, the company replaced them with a new iteration that pinched my small toe. I became a regular at my local UPS store as I returned box after box of shoes, desperately trying to find a replacement style. I kept several pairs that I thought would work, only to find after a day of use that they didn’t, spending more than $500 on footwear that wound up in the charity box.    

“Wear sandals,” my friend Kate suggested one weekend when we shared a room on a girls’ trip to the beach. She brandished a sensible example.

I took off a sock and exposed my foot, protuberances and all.

“Oh,” she said. “I guess not.”

Thanks to a new podiatrist, who is young, patient, and resourceful, I found a style of sneakers that fit. I bought multiple pairs, along with an insert and the various pads and wraps that he suggested. 

He told me about hammer toe surgery, where a small part of bone is removed and a pin inserted to hold everything in place while the bones fuse. Full recovery takes weeks in a surgical shoe. I’d need to go through the ordeal twice to correct both feet, as I did with my bunion surgery. 

“I’m not doing that again,” I told him. He didn’t push. 

A devotee of the worst case scenario, I asked him how I could keep my feet from deteriorating further. 

He said that wearing shoes with a wide toe box, like the ones he suggested, would help forestall further damage. “Keep active,” he went on. “Walk as much as you can.” 

That won’t be hard since I live in New York City, where feet are more important than cars.

“We can manage your problems, ” he said cheerfully, as I was leaving his office. 

He said we! I’d found my podiatric life partner.  

Still, I had to get through my nephew’s wedding. At the event, the bridesmaids and groomsmen walked down the aisle with youthful toes peeking out from long sundresses and linen pants. Older guests wore sandals and flip flops, while the younger crowd went without shoes. 

Even the mother of the bride was barefoot. Her toes were straight and gaily painted blue to match the wedding’s color scheme. I was envious. 

I reminded myself that my unlovely feet have served me well. As a young woman, clad in platform shoes, they took me from my Ohio hometown to the place I’d dreamed of living: New York City. They kept me upright through fertility treatments and divorce, stood me strong for board meetings and conference presentations, and walked me down an aisle as I married again, this time for keeps. With luck and my podiatrist, they’ll take me on the new adventures I have on my list.

At the wedding, I kept my toes tucked away inside my funky oxfords. I’d chosen the yellow ones, and they gave me a bit of panache. 

After the festivities moved indoors for the reception, a barefoot bridesmaid called out to me from the dance floor. “Love your shoes!”

I grinned and lifted an oxford in response. Then I whirled into the crowd. My feet may show their age, but there’s no reason they can’t keep on dancing. 

Fredda is a non-fiction writer whose early work was published in the Washington Post, Cosmopolitan, and the Philadelphia Inquirer, among other publications. She took a thirty-year detour from the writing life to lead a nonprofit that helped people with developmental disabilities find jobs and live in their own homes. Thrilled to be retired and writing again, she lives in New York City with her husband and a large tabby named Monsieur.