Friday, September 27, 2013
I like my feet. Not that they are much to look at. I've always been envious of women who have beautiful hands and feet, especially those who make a fantastic living being a hand model. I have my mother's hands: age spots, little scars, large veins running across the back, nails that refuse to hold a manicure. And yes, they've been this way my entire life, even when I was young. And, lucky me, I have my father's feet: short, very wide, mismatched toes. (If they were harrier, they might look good on a Hobbit!) Many times I end up buying men's sneakers, simply because most companies don't make their shoe options wide enough for my man feet.
But still, I like my feet, simply because of all the support they've given me for over five decades. When I think of all the terrific places I've gone since I've been married to Ed, all the wonderful sights we've seen, all the adventures in hiking, walking, covering vast amounts of ground simply to see what was around the next corner, and the next... And my feet have been there the whole time, holding me up, with nary a complaint. (Not like these knees of mine!) So feet must be a blessing from God, no matter how un-cute they are, because they do so much for us.