Ache
Tooth ache. Back ache. Foot ache. Heart ache. At some point, I’ve been the reluctant companion to one or more of these. Of all these, foot ache is the most frustrating, by far.
You have to be of a certain age to get this: foot ache is not in the domain or comprehension of youth.
I have flat feet and fallen arches. Always did. My brother would kindly refer to my feet as a pair of pomfrets (a flat silvery fish much beloved of my community – I’m unsure of the freudian connection). Sibling commentary aside, I did just fine until a few years ago. I went dancing, wore foolish stilletoes, walked for miles. And then my forties hit. I love this decade for the independence and freedom I’ve discovered. I can’t find so much love for the weight gain and bad back and now, hurting, throbbing, tingling feet.
An ache is an ache, right? Your back aches in one way, your rotten tooth in quite another. But feet go one better. They hurt in three different ways at the same time. Some parts tingle, unpleasant sensations of mild shock centred in one part of the foot. In another, the pain radiates while in the third, it is a shooting, stabbing agony.
I walk fast. Not just exercise walking but even the hundred times a day from the bedroom to the kitchen or front door. Are you also a victim of your door bell? I’m convinced that part of the universe has it in for me. There are days when my butt has barely touched the bed or chair that the summons sound. Sometimes I get to set half a stitch between door bells. Ignoring it is not in my realm of things. I’m sure other more evolved beings can smile and continue to lower their butts or stitch or read while the door bell rings and rings and rings. I’m not even close to reaching that zen of consciousness. I leap up each time, scattering needle, or book, giving myself a crick in the back too, just to answer the door. But I digress. The point, in short, was to demonstrate my walking speed: fast.
So what does a brisk mover do when confronted with aching, throbbing feet? Well, the first instinct is to stop the pain. Massage, hot and cold applications, a nifty little wooden rolling pin to roll over the sore spots, I’ve done it all. My spouse is my de facto masseur. He sits watching tv, my feet propped up in his lap, working out the kinks, soothing the soreness away. I love this man. I’ve stopped short of cortisone injections but only because past experience has taught me a bitter lesson about unnecessary steroid usage. Well, all these techniques work in greater or lesser degree, but feet still take their time to heal. The waiting forces me to move a little slowly, stroll, catch my breath, smell the flowers. It’s not a bad thing, and it certainly leads to a grateful appreciation for the two slabs of flesh that take our weight all day, that help us stand upright and keep our balance, that propel us from point a to b. All this while being stuffed into shoes and sandals and peep toe heels and the hundred other instruments of torture we happily subject our feet to.
Aching feet remind me of the people we sometimes take for granted. We ignore the many small things they do for us that make our lives happier or calmer or more comfortable. They do it anyway. It’s only when they are gone away or hurting fit to kill that we stop and register their presence and how much we miss them. Or love them. Or need them.
Feet and life’s loyal companions. It’s best not to take either for granted. Try and keep them happy. Pedicures and comfortable footwear for the first, acknowledgement and appreciation for the other. We need them, hurt free and happy, more than we think.