Dear Feet:
I know I test you. There are the flip-flops that completely lack arch support, the heels that put you on tip-toe, the boots I wore last weekend to LovEvolution that resulted in a giant blister. I know I don't always make the best choices.
But I can't imagine my life without you.
I depend on you to hit the brakes when an asshole driver cuts me off on the way to the office. I rely on you when I need to take a journalist tramping through a vineyard or pour wine hour after hour at a festival. You slog through my Friday nights while I wait tables at the wine bar.
I position you in 45-degree angles during yoga class and make sure you're shoulder-width apart for squats. I force you to lunge. (And I hate lunges.) And I sometimes forget the flip-flops -- with their lack of arch support -- when I shower at the gym, thereby putting you at risk of disgusting fungal illnesses.
And I ask you to run, mile after mile, pounding the road over and over again because my brain has decided that it wants to me to be a runner. I twist your ankle, take you to physical therapy (where you are subjected to poking, prodding and x-rays), submerge you in ice baths, wrap you in athletic tape, make you run more. Occasionally, I turn your toenails black and then feel embarrassed when I have to explain to the pedicure lady why you look sad.
You endure so much, yet you never let me down.
And this morning, you were amazing. Despite the training interruptions and my lack of confidence, you gave me a PR: 2:08:44 -- exactly 16 seconds faster than even my wildest dreams had hoped.
Pieds. Piedi. Pies. Paa. Pés.
So beautiful and wonderful and strong in any language.
With much gratitude,
Me.
P.S. We are getting a 90-minute massage tomorrow night.
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