I am hobbling around this morning, nothing like my swan-like self thanks to an enormous blister on each heel. Putting my feet on the floor after a hours of a non-weight bearing position is like no other agony I’ve ever lived through before. I can prescribe a new torture if the governments runs out of ideas.
After a few minutes of crabbing around, I’m fine and these blisters will heal in a couple of days but MAN! nothing like a little chink in the armor to unhinge my grace and demeanor.
I’m taking a class on Thursday evenings in Boston. I drove to the first class–big mistake: construction, traffic jams, detours, no parking except the $25 lot and I was wicked late anyway!
I’ve been taking the train since which is great in every way except it stretches a 3 hour class into something of a 5 hour project every week.
Cooler weather is really here and I wore my FAVORITE old Doc Martins instead of flip flops last week. I began my race-walk from North Station to my class (a 15 minute walk–yes I could take the T but only if I had to). Half-way to my class I noticed my right heel hurt a little. Then my left heel. By the time I arrived I knew I had a wardrobe malfunction with my shoes.
In case you are thinking, Oh wait, she’s a nurse, I’ll bet she has a mini first aid kit like all health care providers pack for little emergencies like these! think this instead, Oh yeah, she’s a nurse, she says things like, “Get over it! You’re not hurt!” when people come up to her with a severed finger.
I made it to my class and proceeded to sit for three hours which, evidently is the worst thing one can do when cultivating painful blisters. My walk back to North Station was…pathetic. It came from the Ministry of Silly Walks. I tried to keep my feet flat at all times to avoid any friction on the blisters which didn’t do anything but cause people to wonder how much I had to drink or what type of degenerative neurological condition I suffered.
My train ride home was not my typical relaxing commute–it was fraught with thoughts like, “I wonder if it would be better to take off my shoes to walk home?” or “How far is too far to crawl?” I could have called my husband if I had my cell phone–but I never have my cell phone because I hate it.
Taking the few steps off the train was agony. I was searching my pockets for quarters because I was actually going to use the diseased, filth encrusted pay phone to call Mr. B and bawl for rescue. It takes very little to reduce my to a blubbering lump of patheticness.
Then I saw a car that looked just like my husband’s car, which it was. I think I know how ship wreck victims feel when they see a helicopter hovering over them. Yes I am that dramatic about my pain.
I’ll contemplate the fate of my favorite shoes when I can put my feet on the ground without screaming.