Text A
Feet Sharleen Jonasson
“I can t see that you re gaining weight,”Parker says.But my Parker isn tstupid; he wouldn t admit to this even if I sat on his lap and drove the two of usright through the ground and halfway to China with my gravity..I know,however,that I m getting heavier.I can feel it dragging on me,slowing me down.And of course there is the evidence of my feet.They hurt.There are the bunions,malformations that distort the uniformshape of a size nine-and-a-half (okay; a size ten in some styles) and ache andthrob more and more often,warning of changes in the atmosphere.And myfeet have begun to broaden,causing painful friction between them and myshoes.“Every time you take a step,”the orthopedic surgeon explains,“your feetare hitting the ground like this.”He demonstrates the way-the wrong way -that I get around.Mimicks,it seems to me.“ And the impact isn t beingabsorbed properly by the bones of the foot.It s a kind of trauma,each time youmove forward.Day after day,year after year.”
“I m not aware of it,”I say.“Of course you re not.For you,it s natural.But you can t expect to continue on in the same way without adding to the damage.”
He warns me about the evils of high heels..I explain that flats or low-heeled pumps,in conservative colours and styles that don t attract attention tomy abnormality,are all I ever venture out in.He is pleased with mypragmatism.“We could do something with those bunions,”he says,settling his bulk intoan armchair to disperse some friendly,paternal advice.“But what you have toconsider is that you ll be hospitalized for 48 hours,wrapped in thick bandagesfor weeks,unable to regain complete use of your feet for up to four months.And even then there are no guarantees.Though the probability of noticeableimprovement is high,maybe 80 per cent.What you have to decide-and onlyyou can make the decision-is: is it worth it?Does your condition keep youfrom doing all the things you want,all the things you need to do in your life？Are things that bad?”
Sometimes I forget what role to play: mother,daughter,wife,lover,friend,employee,citizen,etc.Some days I do one or two pretty well,well enough not to be booed off the stage,but then I can t manage the other ones.It s not that I forget the lines of,say,wife,but I just can t get inside thatparticular character,not even when I recognize an obvious cue.
People observing closely as I,the only one wearing a jogging suit on concert night (was there a secret message in the school newsletter,revealing a dress code ?) carry my plate of home-made cupcakes into the school gym (everyone else showed up with bakery-bought squares),might say,tsk,tsk：That one has been miscast.While other women dance through the changing fashions of femininity,skipping adroitly through the maze of politically correct feminism,I plod,leaving sloppy tracks.Other women know how to knot scarves,exactly whereto place the parsley garnish,the right thing to say to a troubled child.All this,and still have time to work out,practice law and run for office,to make theworld a healthier,safer,cleaner place for us all.I m not in step and it s not forlack of trying but in my mind there still plays a faint residue of The Donna ReedShow that I watched as a child,warm cookies and a clean oven accomplished infull 1950s dress: white apron over full skirt,hose,high heels...Oh,myarches.
I am not unaware that big feet are un feminine.And that to care about this is unfeminism.
“Why do you worry?”Parker says.“Worry doesn t change anything.”
“There s so much to worry about,”is my answer.Pollution,crime,war,
disease,poverty,old age.Not to mention the fact that I can no longer force my misshapen foot into an even moderately stylish slipper.But I concede his point：actions speak louder than worry.I attend a forum on violence against women and children.We are to hear a speaker,the author of a self-help book for battering men.As we file into the theatre,a young man (a decade younger than me,at least) comes out from behind the curtain,wearing jeans,a purple shirt and an earring that flashes under the stage-light.
He sits on the floor,takes off his shoes and socks andslides over to sit on the rim of the stage.He tells us he s there to help provide anon-threatening,non-judgmental environment in which we can discuss,question,and hopefully understand sexual roles and stereotypes and how theseaffect attitudes and behaviours.He swings his bare feet side to side as he talks:
I am unconventional,I am vulnerable,I want to be your friend.He is,he says,merely a facilitator.Periodically he flexes his ankles,flaunting his tender,white insteps.While the professionals and other concerned citizens get up one after theother and offer their insightful comments,I fight an urge to get up and screamat him : I can t deal with the big issues when you re forcing your yellow callusesand reddish heels in my face.Where does this hostility come from？
“There are non-surgical treatments,” the podiatrist says.“ There aredevices.”He shows me some pink,synthetic pieces,a thin wedge for undereach heel and two long bumpy things,like bloated worms,that go under yourtoes.These won t correct my condition but they might prevent it from gettingworse.At a cost of four full weeks of groceries,not including tax.“ You wearthem inside your shoes like this,”he says,demonstrating with a plastic modelfoot he takes down from a shelf.He hands the pieces to me for inspection; theysmell strongly of man-made material.“Every day?”I ask.“For the rest of your life,”he says.“ When you re standing,walking,hiking,biking,or whatever.Whatever you normally do in a day.But no morerunning.”