Not exactly an "Officer and a Gentleman"

On Friday I was blogging about my shoes and I digressed into a story about a sprained ankle and a Sam. I don't know what it was about this particular Sam but while I dated him I also suffered from an Achilles Heel tear.

I was coming home one night in December or January. It was cold, as it is known to be in the Midwest in those winter months, but it was one of those clear and no snow type of nights. My driveway was clear of snow and it was dry. Except, I learned the hard way, one tiny little spot. There was one damn spot of ice about 6 inches wide on the whole freaking driveway and of course, I stepped on that tiny spot. And slipped. And fell. And I really really really hurt my ankle-leg-foot part of my body. I was laying on the driveway crying my head off at 1 am.

I sort of crawled and dragged myself into the house and sat on the floor. I then called some friends of mine to come get me (the Sam was working as a DJ at a gig and there was no way he could come get me so I didn't even bother to impose) to take me to the hospital. I hurt hurt hurt. And I had no idea what was wrong. I thought I broke my leg or foot or ankle or all three.

So I went to the ER and learned I had a torn Achilles. I got a temp cast thingy on it and then the next day I got a boot thingy on it.

When all this happened I was teaching at the college level. The day after the incident I had a morning class to teach and an evening one. So, my friends of the ER trip gave me a ride to the school and the Dean of students took me to the doc that afternoon and back to the school. Sam and I were supposed to have a date and he was going to pick me up at school when class was over. But with all the running around and teaching and stuff, I sort of forgot to mention to Sam I screwed up my ankle/ foot.

So he shows up to get me and comes to my room. I was sitting at my desk with my leg propped up and was chatting with some students. Sam comes in and takes one look and asks what happened. I told him and he chuckled. I grab my crutches and ask him if he'll carry my bag. He takes one look at my giant pink bag and says no way.

What he does instead is hand me my bag and picks ME up, one shoulder fireman carry style, and grabs my crutches and off we go. As he went through the hallways with me hanging ass up over his shoulder, my casted/booted foot dangling, people in the hallway step aside and applaud. They laugh. They clap and cheer. I raised my head and waved at everyone as we paraded passed them.

We arrive at his pick-up truck where he so carefully and gently deposits me on the passenger seat, kisses me, smiles and asks what I want for dinner. As we pull out of the parking lot, everyone who is still around cheers. We wave.

Not Richard Gere and Debra Winger, but still.... it was good. Oh so good.

Maggie

Satchels & Shoes: The Replacements

I have a favorite pair of shoes that I love to wear in the fall/ spring/ winter time. They're lace up brown loafers with a chunky heel. I've had them for about... 10 years. The leather is cracked, the laces have been replaced so many times I've lost count, I had to put in Dr. Scholls Magellan Gellin' insoles in many times, and now the sole has a hole- the sort that if I step in a puddle or walk through damp grass I shall have to endure a wet sock for the duration. So these shoes should be retired.

Well, last spring, I did get a replacement pair. And I was excited because they were so close to my favorite shoe. I wore the replacement pair around for a few days, deemed them worthy, but I couldn't get rid of the old pair; I just bequeathed them space in the rear of my closet. Then I wore the replacements to Ireland. And I got blisters. I didn't get a little tiny baby blister but the sort of blister that... COVERED THE ENTIRE BOTTOM OF MY FOOT!!!!!!!!!!! On BOTH feet- 1 on each heel and one on each 'ball' of my feet. And on the tops of my toes and the side of each pinky toe and on the back heel of my left foot. (These blisters actually left a sort of weird type of scarring on the bottoms of my feet in the form of discoloration of the skin in the blister shaped pattern that remains today) I was in utter misery because this happened on the first day of my trip to Dublin. I never wore the shoes again. I have no idea why I even lugged the bastards home from Europe because when I got here, I showed Daddy-O my feet, bought blister pads, and threw the offending footwear in the nearest Dumpster- And yes, I'm sure there was some starving person to whom I could've given these shoes but I would've felt terrible if my charity shoes ruined someone else's feet- what if I cursed them? Here's a picture of the offenders!

Okay, so today Daddy-O and I went shopping and lo- and behold- I got another replacement pair for the replacements. And these are Sketchers, which is what I should've bought in the first place rather then the cheap knock offs that about made my feet fall off- literally! I love love love my Sketcher tennise shoes so if these are even one tenth as comfortable and don't leave blisters, then they could be the perfect pair of casual shoes!

So there they are: the NEW replacements, part deux. And a cute green Nine & Co. bag.

In Shoes We Trust,
Maggie

Can feet actually fall off the body from overuse?

Can they? Not because of gangrene or anything disease ridden, but just... plunk, plop, right off?

I stood on my poor old dogs on Saturday from noon until 11:30 pm; I sat for 10 minutes in that entire time. I opened and closed the ice cream parlor. Then I did it again on Sunday, and I think I sat for about 30 minutes. Same time frame.

Saturday when I got home, I had "cankles"- this is the phenomenon where your ankles swell up so you can't tell the difference between your calf and your ankle. And I wore shortie tennis socks and when I pulled them off, I felt like I got burned. Well, my ankles swelled so much the sock was embedded into my skin and when removed it was like rug burn. The mark was still there on Sunday morning.

I could literally see my heartbeat in the soles of my feet after that work day.

And I have what is equivalent to pitcher's elbow or shoulder or whatever... Which has nothing to do with feet, but I just wanted to point it out, nonetheless.

And when I rubbed my feet I cried. It was the definition, true definition, of "Hurt so Good." That had to be what Mellencamp was crooning about- sore feet finally being rubbed. And once I rubbed them and cried over them, they itched like crazy. Something with blood circulation? I have no idea.

I just wonder if I'll wake up in the next day or two and find that my feet abandoned me for abuse, that they just off and run away without the rest of me. Who could blame them after the poor treatment?

In the "dog" house,
Mags