My feet are two bulky hyperextensions of my legs that aymmetrically carry the weight of my body. My left sits comfortably at an 8.5, while my right extends forward, righteously claiming its place at a size 9. I waver between these sizes, shifting my weight like house walls resting cautiously on a tilted foundation. My feet have their own identities, while as a pair, they reject any set standard of society.
For most of my life, I have satisfied my right, always taking the larger shoe. This decision has left me half barefoot running to first base, or crushing litter in playgrounds with the naked, unprotected flesh of my left foot. I ran, never that fast, leaving behind the evidence that half of me had no desire to move forward, but chose to linger in that limbo that precedes full grown adulthood. Although more embarrassing, it’s much better than pleasing my left. Leaving one foot dancing in the open space of a pair of heels, womanhood’s many curses, has almost led to a broken ankle. Instead, I bear the burden of my fully body’s weight pushing relentlessly on the toes of my right foot. The pressure tightening around the front of my shoe has left my whole foot numb after a night of dancing, and left me shocked that not one toe was broken.
In attempts to avoid the bursting blisters and scars, I have often contemplated shoplifting; switching around the shoes in the box so that the mismatched pair would personally suit my body’s disparity. It’s a perfect solution, besides the jail time of course. The thought of carrying myself in absolute comfort is as imaginable as flip flops being accepted at one of Boston’s hottest night clubs. Until that movement sets in, I’ll continue to move awkwardly through life, satisfying only one extremity at a time.
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