Quick note: No newsletter next week, I’m not trying to show up Santa 🎅🏿
Before I knew they were deformed, I thought my feet beautiful.
I’d place them side-by-side and admire my big toes, that softly slant outward, a “v” forming in the space between them. It made me think of my mother, in an era where business was mostly handled over the phone, spelling out our last name for some representative or another, “R like red, E like elephant, V like Victor...” V like Victor. Victor became victory in my young mind and my toes were winning.
That is, until I learned the proper term for my wayward feet: bunions. (And yes, I’ve already affirmed myself and my flawed feet by Googling whether or not you can still sell feet pics if you have bunions — I’ll never go hungry, y’all.)
I had old lady feet. When I’d get pedicures, the women would grab the knobs of my feet and admonish me for wearing high heels too often — not knowing their lecture was unwarranted, I’d been born this way.
In my early 20s, I went to a podiatrist. He hung x-rays of my feet on the wall and asked me if I knew—“Yes, that’s my granny!” He could tell he said, he’d recognize those feet anywhere. They were distinct enough and drastic enough that he’d immediately known whom I’d inherited them from. I had old lady feet and I was barely old enough to drink.
He told me that at some point, I’d need to have the bones in my feet broken and reset. One foot, then the other, and several weeks spent down for each. He suggested I wait as long as possible to have the surgeries done because my feet are so incredibly flat that the bunions would slowly return over time and I’d have to have the surgery repeated every 10 years or so. “Wait until it’s a quality of life issue,” he’d said.
In my 20s, I had little regard for my deformed feet. I put my them through dozens of pairs of Jessica Simpson and Steve Madden and cheapie Baker’s heels. Often hoping to be drunk enough to numb the pain and I always left the house with an emergency pair of flip-flops in my clutch or the trunk of my car.
I frequently sprained my ankles until in grad school, I double-sprained my ankle stepping off a curb and not noticing and therefore not anticipating the deep drop created by the storm drain. A classmate came and gathered me off the sidewalk and rushed me to the campus health center where a nurse wheeled me back for x-rays while I called out, “Don’t let them harvest any of my organs!” She didn’t think I was funny (but my friend did!).
I’d crested 30 by this point, so I was a good little patient who respected RICE — rest, ice, compression, elevation — and I spent so much time off my ankle that it healed too tight and I had to use crutches and go to physical therapy multiple times per week for months. The PT would set me up on a treadmill and advise I walk. “Your body isn’t built for running,” she’d warn. She’d massage my ungodly tight calves and instruct me to stretch them daily, “For how long?” I asked.
“Forever.”
When I tell people my “body isn’t built for running,” I have flat feet, they look at me skeptically, “I have flat feet too.” As if, flawed feet don’t exist on a spectrum. Imagine someone telling me they can’t drive, they have bad vision and me responding, “But I have to wear contacts too!” There are varying degrees of this and yes, I can physically run, but the risk and challenges are much greater for me. It’s not an activity I should be — nor do I have any interest in — taking up as a hobby.
Now that I live in the most walkable city in America, I’ve had to rethink what is a “practical” shoe. Flats? Not practical. I might as well be walking around with cardboard wrapped around my feet. The Tevas with the thin soles and the skinny straps? Not much different than trying to trek miles around town in flip-flops.
I’ve re-upped on the SuperFeet my PT in grad school suggested I buy, which I loved, they made me feel like a ship that’d been righted. I just didn’t love them enough to replace them after they became worn out. I ordered two pair a few months ago courtesy of the funds in my HSA account.
I crowned myself a real city girl when I began leaning into the sneakers-and-dresses aesthetic, but mainly I did it out of comfort and not a desire to be cool.
Maybe a year ago, I was targeted heavily on Instagram with compression sock ads. Apparently, I was supposed to be amazed that they now come in Polka Dot and believe that I could be just as sexy in a style of sock most commonly affiliated with old ladies as I could in their much racier cousin, the over-the-knee variety. The ads failed to persuade me. Mainly because I just wasn’t aware of what compression socks were supposed to be doing.
I’d even periodically hear about a friend of a friend who no longer travels without them. And all the ads featured people basically around my age. But still, I couldn’t see myself purchasing a pair.
That is until, after a weekend full of walking miles around the city with family and lots of standing in and pacing around my kitchen making Thanksgiving dinner, my feet began to revolt. I spent an entire Sunday in bed wincing if I accidentally flexed a foot the wrong way. When I consulted Dr. Google to diagnose the throbbing, burning feeling running along the outer edge of my foot, the most likely scenario was a type of tendonitis. And the most likely reason someone would be suffering from tendonitis?
You guessed it — they’re 40 or older!
While I’m not quite over 40 yet, I think coming from a family with aint-shit ankles and being afflicted with incredibly flat feet has aged my feet up — like my podiatrist told me all those years ago, I have the feet of an old lady.
20 years later, his words have taken on a renewed sense of urgency. What exactly did he mean by “quality of life”? Losing a day in bed wasn’t great but can I expect to still be able to walk as much as 15 miles a day several days in a row without complaint from my body? Now recovered, for the most part, if I wear the right shoes, my day-to-day life and decisions don’t result in any kind of pain.
It’s likely that I’m over due for a visit to a new podiatrist. My body is changing and, I assume, medical technology has progressed over the decades that other options may be available to me — but I’m not doing that appointment until the new year so it can go toward that 2025 deductible! #adulting
In the mean time, in a bid to take better care of my feet, I booked a massage, blew the dust off my foam roller, and I have returned to regularly stretching my calves again. I eased up on my walking to give my feet time to recover, slowly returning long walks to my routine so I wouldn’t have a repeat of grad school where my tendons healed too tight. And I’ve come to terms with the fact that I need to listen more closely to my body and be more mindful of its limitations.
Also, I ordered compression socks.
Many of the Redditors posting about foot pain cited tight calves as the culprit — no one tells you your calves can really cause calamity for your body if you overlook them. Foam rolling, doing a series of calf stretches, and my massage therapist really going deep, rapidly increased the state of my feet for the better.
Another thing you can do to pamper your calves? Compression socks. I hopped on a Black Friday deal and ordered a 3-pack from one of the few places that accommodates thick calves.
Compression socks are great for people who spend long hours on their feet or those who spend long hours sitting at a desk, like I do. They help your body fight gravity. It’s hard to explain, but typically after a few hours of work, when I stand up my legs feel… stodgy? Like I shouldn’t be describing parts of body with adjectives better suited for a Great British Bake-Off critique, you know what I’m saying? But when I wear my compression socks my legs just feel fresher after a long day at my desk.
Maybe compression socks are cool now and maybe they aren’t. At this age, it’s more about doing what I need to do so I can still do what I want to do.