My Heels Crack Me Up

When I was a teenager, I SWORE to myself that I was never going to wake-up, in my old age*, and discover myself with ugly heels.

There was something so off-putting about older women who seemed to constantly have massive cracking, line-defined heels. It grossed me out. I couldn't understand how these women could live with themselves if they showed up at the beach looking like THAT**.

Now, I am that woman. And, thankfully, I live too far from the beach for it to matter.

I started scratching my heel today and it actually started flaking, like the scene in Breakfast Club where Ally Sheedy is scratching her head, making dandruff "snow" on a piece of paper while she is in detention. Except that I was creating a snowstorm that would rival the twelve feet many locations in the East are experiencing.

Doug has tried to help by licking my heels. But he gives up after a few seconds. I'm guessing it's like contacting sandpaper. That flakes.

When I cock my leg just right and look down at my heel over my shoulder, I swear I can make out an aerial map of a small Swedish town. That might come in handy if I were planning to travel sometime in the next freakin' thirty years.

The poor, poor person who draws the lottery to work on my feet next time is going to get a hearty tip from me. And, in the meantime, I am going to cover my feet with socks at all times.

My sincere hope is that the socks will keep me from becoming the "I don't EVER want to look like that" poster child for the teenage girls I meet.


*Back then, anything past 25 would have been considered ANCIENT.

**Not to mention the embarrassment of unshaven body parts or cellulite or wearing the wrong bathing suit for body type. I was a picky little twit. Now, I'm less picky and less twitty.