Day Three

Update:  I wrote most of this yesterday as Gigi was mid surgery and I was practicing some of my better avoidance techniques.  She's doing... Ok ...this morning & is still in ICU.  

...So we are going to talk shoes.  Who doesn't love shoes?  I didn't at first, and didn't start wearing heels till I was out of school... But then I fell hard, figuratively speaking, and wore heels.  Cute spectator, beribboned, buckled, fancy HEELS.  I lived with Gigi for two years and she'd always tsk tsk my footwear as I left for work, "You'll ruin your feet." Heh.

It wasn't even like I was clomping for miles thru Manahttan, Carrie Bradshaw-style.  I would walk from my car to desk, the occasional copy machine/coffee run, and then back out to the car.  My feet were fine!  Or the endorphins from being happy 3" taller masked the ache.  Or maybe I had managed to sever all the nerves in my feet and couldn't tell the difference.  Anyway, this lasted for about 15 years (no one is allowed to do any math with that number).

I've mentioned we have flight benefits, yes?   This is the deal:  we can pay a nominal fee to fly on any airline, or pay nothing to fly on a couple.  But we fly standby - if there are enough paying customers, employees commuting, or any warm bodies willing to buy $5 mid-air drinks, we don't get on.  Matt can check availability so we know which flights to aim for, but those are the same ones still offering the best deals and sometimes they book up as we're waiting in the gate area.  

In exchange (apart from showing up for work), you can't look like a skank - or wear jeans.  I have no idea if this rule is enforced, but I've never wanted to chance it while the plane is boarding so I wear slacks.  And for the last 15 years I've worn heels with slacks.  Until our trip to Ireland when I spent 5+ hours investigating Philadelphia's airport and, well, m'feetsies hurt.  

Then, on our trip to Florida for my race - which I still haven't written about - I made a really, really poor choice of footwear when we went to the park.  No, not heels - I'm not that vain - but sandals, without any cushion or support for my xx year old feet.  They hurt by the end of the day and were sadly still sore the next morning. So then I ran 13.1 miles on them as punishment for being weak because I'm as masochist.  

They showed me though!  Nothing says revenge or kills vanity faster than the feeling of walking on broken glass. I flew home wearing my trusty black slacks & running shoes.  Nothing screams Middle Aged Woman like slacks & sneakers.  

And just in case I was thinking about calling that whole experience a one off, I pulled my Achilles the following weekend, which has meant a week (turning into two - frigging tendon) off running AND forced me to wear my new flats *gasp* at work... With slacks.  Gah.  And since I like chocolate too much to give up running, I need to keep my effing feet happy, which means I might have to permantly reconsider the heels.  Maybe.  We'll see.  Gah. 

This is, of course, exactly what Gigi warned me about 15 years ago.  With age and bunion surgery comes wisdom.

In the great circle of life, this is also what I want to tell this very pretty young med student.  She was wandering around Gigi's floor all day and my feet hurt just watching her (My heels aren't nearly that high or spikey).  And, although ICU is a scary place, time can also pass excrutiatingly slowly, so I entertained myself by taking this stalker-like photo for my blog.  I also want to tell her she's been watching too much House and ER (crap, I just realized she's too young to have watched ER) because no doctor I've ever seen IRL wears shoes like that.  With age and nerve damage comes wisdom.