Have you heard of Baby Foot?
It’s a couple of sock-shaped bags of acid that you strap on your dogs for a couple hours.
Ian did a round three weeks ago, with not much results. So we both did it last week.
My feet are so peely and gross, y’all. It is awesome.
But I feel bad saying that because his feet aren’t doing anything besides flake a bit on top.
I’m not sure how you feel about pictures, so I won’t share any. But I will tell you that Google has plenty.
P. S. Soaking is important.
Thank you very much for my new shoes. Today I wore them for eleven hours at the engraver with one bathroom break, and my feet feel just fine and dandy.
Keep up the good work!
Helen felt the bedroom walls closing in on her, and she pressed her pillow tightly to her face in order to scream without alarming the neighbors. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, but the sandpaper feeling wasn’t ready to go away just yet. Too many tears, too little time.
She twisted in bed to pull the comforter over the lower half of her body, the cold part. That only lasted half an hour or so before her feet started sweating, but it was too much effort to kick the cover off. So she dealt with it. That’s just how it is now, she thought. Sweaty feet and screamy pillows. The left side of her mouth curved in the biggest part of a smile that she could manage.
The inside of her eyelids was made of wool. They felt like that sweater her aunt had gifted her when she was nine years old, the one her mother forced her to wear to the family get-together, the one that left her welted and red for days afterward. Her corneas felt abraded.
But her eyes still worked. She turned her head and looked at the jewelry box on top of her dresser and thought about the pearl earrings inside. The gift from her other aunt, her favorite aunt when she still had favorite anythings. Helen reached up to fondle her earlobe, wondering if she could even still wear earrings. It had been years since she’d bothered to pretty herself up at all.
Depression is a bastard. Helen had never gotten over that trip to Venezuela, but that wasn’t the cause, simply the trigger. Helen felt the bedroom walls closing in on her, and she pressed the pillow tightly to her face.
Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with my foot right now, but my left foot has spent months and months cooped up in this thing over the past five years.
In 2007, I sprained my ankle pretty darn badly. It got big and funny looking, and they wrapped it up in the ER and gave me a referral to an orthopedist. He had me in the boot for two months, but it wasn’t getting better, so I got two weeks off work just in time to miss the biggest blood drive of the year, yay! My boss was super mad.
But two weeks of rest didn’t help too much either. I got an MRI, and yup, it was still messed up. My tendon was in the wrong place, and it probably wasn’t going to migrate back to where it was supposed to be on its own. I was offered a choice between a shot or surgery, and I picked the shot. That didn’t help too much at first, but after a few more weeks, it was slightly improved, so I opted out of surgery. It’s probably about 95% good now, and that’s close enough for me.
Then I started breaking toes. I’m hell on toes. I broke my next to last toe on a baby gate, and that sucked. I broke my pinky toe on the couch, and that sucked. The coup de gras was the time I broke my pinky toe (again) on our dresser. I fell right back down on the bed, afraid to look. My husband looked, and he was mighty impressed. My normally forward-facing toe was perpendicular to my foot. He watched YouTube videos and wanted to set it himself, but I refused, oddly enough.
That x-ray was what I immediately thought of for this prompt, but sadly, we don’t have a picture of it anymore.
Most recently, I probably broke my foot last month. I didn’t get an x-ray, but my mom agreed that it was probably broken. I had some bruising and pain, but no deformity, so I wore the boot off and on for a couple of weeks. It’s still a little sore, but not bad.
And that’s just my left foot.
Well, just the inside of my left foot, not counting the shard of glass that fell into it from a broken casserole dish, or the toothpick I stepped on that was lodged in my foot for two days, or any number of other petty accidents that I’m prone to.