My mother hated feet. In her opinion, it was acceptable that they existed, but unless sleeping or showering they should be tucked away, hidden from the world inside a nice pair of shoes. Definitely not flip flops or sandals. When I was very young, maybe five, hearing her complain about feet made me suspect that I was somewhat disgusting, being the unwitting owner of two of them. I am sure my mother’s foot-hatred did not extend to the chubby feet of her three children, but still, I was concerned. Enough to keep my socks on when inside the house, just in case the sight of them would make her love me slightly less.
My mother had the smelliest feet in existence and she’d come home from work and make us give her foot rubs, the smell permeating into our hands and olfactory. It created an absolute disgust in feet for me ever since. But as a similar epiphany and knowing how lucky I am to be in this skin suit, I got my first pedicure a couple weeks ago and I can’t help but wonder, why did I wait this long?
My mother had the smelliest feet in existence and she’d come home from work and make us give her foot rubs, the smell permeating into our hands and olfactory. It created an absolute disgust in feet for me ever since. But as a similar epiphany and knowing how lucky I am to be in this skin suit, I got my first pedicure a couple weeks ago and I can’t help but wonder, why did I wait this long?