Sometimes Feet Stink.

Hi friends – this post may be super awkward if you don’t know I was born with a limb deformity. Oh, and one of my feet was accidentally amputated when I was 8 years old. Cool? Cool.

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It only happens every once in a while, but I go through bouts of complete misery about my feet… or lack thereof.

And it stinks. No pun intended.

Okay, maybe a little bit of that pun was intended.

I don't like to bring it up but I’ve been in a funk lately, so I’ve decided to write about it.

It’s been a string of things lately. My feet/legs feel like I’m 40-years-old when I’m exercising. Not always, but sometimes. It’s the first time I’ve realized that my body isn’t invincible. When I was younger and couldn’t keep up on the playground, I’d just work through the discomfort and push harder. Now, it’s hard not let my body’s need for Bengay and Tylenol weigh on my ego or my desire to keep pushing.

Which brings me to my next challenge: I’m a nightmare for anyone trying to make me a prosthetic. You see, most people who have lower limb prosthetics falls into 2 camps: 1) those who have above-knee amputations and qualify for those awesome titanium, Olympic running legs or 2) those with partial foot or leg amputations, who are relatively sedentary and are perfect for the flimsier, silicon feet (like you see in movies). 

I’m neither of these.

I refused to get a near-knee amputation when I was 21 years old, despite my doctors’ urges to do so. By doing so, I made it exponentially more difficult to be fit for a prosthetic.

So, whenever they hand me a silicon prosthetic and ask me to “take it easy,” I nod and then proceed to run around Boston with the same chaos and energy as Phoebe Buffay. When I bring my broken prosthetic to my doctor months later, it’s a fun battle with insurance until I’m approved the money for a new one.

This is a battle I frequently fight, and unfortunately, sometimes lose. Such as last week, when I was denied the amount of insurance money I need for this cool hybrid-between-the-two-camps prosthetic.  

In an attempt to not let life kick me down, I decided to treat myself to a new pair of sneakers. I thought a sturdier pair could help mask the issues of my gorilla-glued prosthetic and provide some support for my achy joints.

Which brings me to tonight, when I actually tried to put them on for the first time.

Here’s something you may not know about me. There are few things in the world that give me more anxiety than shoes. I plan my outfits around the very few pairs of shoes I can fit on my feet/prosthetic; most nights of the week, I put on whatever prosthetic I need for the next day (I rotate 2-3 depending on the shoe) and put the shoe on… and then slip both off, so I don’t have to spend 20 minutes of my morning routine struggling with them.

This winter has been a particular challenge. There has been so much snow on the ground that I have had to wear one pair of heavy boots (and its corresponding prosthetic) to the office and then switch into other shoes (and another prosthetic) once I get to work.

But actually, it’s induced some funny maybe-only-I-can-appreciate-this moments. I’ve forgotten the foot I need at home multiple times (how many people can say that?). Another day, I actually put the bag with my prosthetic in the office fridge instead of the bag that had my lunch in it. The best was probably the day the toes of my fake foot were peeking out of the top of my gym bag on the train. I didn’t notice until I saw a woman looking at me with complete horror. I tried my best to give off the vibe that I was a costume designer for a theatrical performance somewhere… but I’m convinced I’m on an MBTA police report somewhere.

But tonight? Tonight was not funny. All I wanted was to brave this cold weather and try out my new running jogging shoes. At 8:00, I sat down to…

Unlace the shoes.

Force my “sporty” prosthetic into them.

Attempt to lace them back up.

Stand up.

Notice my prosthetic is leaning to the left.

Roll out of shoe when pacing the apartment.

Tear up cardboard and cut up an old sock.

Shove cardboard into one side of the shoe to help with rolling.

Pad the other shoe with old sock fabric to match the other shoe’s height.

Jam prosthetic into shoes again.

Reposition cardboard.

And again.

Struggle while trying to relace the shoes.

Use my teeth to pull the laces as tight as possible.

Silently hope my dentist never finds out.  

It’s amazing how none of these actions seem particularly hard to the average individual, but I was so emotionally drained after 40 minutes of this.

And that’s when I started writing tonight: to pull myself out of this slow-building funk.  Do you ever find yourself there? The moment when you’re like, “Oh cool, I’m actually tearing up over [shoes].” We logically know it’s silly, but gosh, succumbing to your funk is a slippery slope.

Here are the facts: It doesn’t matter how much I deal with it, but I will never like shoes. Or my prosthetic. Or the fact that I can’t do all of the things I think other 28 year olds can.

But there are things I do like. I like I never have to worry about saving money for Louis Vuitton high heels. I like how I motivate my doctors to brainstorm ways to make better prosthetics, because I know I’m not the only one like me. I like (and thank my lucky stars) that I was born with whatever genetic trait encourages a person to keep fighting, even after road bumps like tonight.

While we're at it, I also like long walks on the beach, The OC and collecting the mini condiments from hotel room service.

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I think most people have their “shoe” equivalent – by that, I mean the personal battle you find yourself fighting from time to time. Big or small, I dedicate this honest post to you and your... shoes.

My roomie was really into making foot jokes tonight, so I’ll borrow from her. Here’s to all of us putting our best foot forward and stepping over/stomping through our personal road bumps.

Alright, you stinkin’ darn pair of sneakers. Tomorrow morning, we dance.