I Love A Good Pair of Feet
In yoga class yesterday, the instructor commented that he and some other teachers could identify many of their regular students by their backs. He went on to say how unique and identifiable a person’s platonic body parts can be, if you give them the chance. I agree. A person’s ears, their hands, their shoulder blades might be just as identifiable, as beautiful in their own way as their eyes, their hair, their smile, if you pay them a little attention. In my humble opinion, nothing deserves a little extra attention like the all too-oft ignored foot.
I love a good pair of feet. They’re beautiful. And practical. Functional. They take you where you want to go. Last Wednesday, I saw Thomas Champagne play Flipnotics at the Triangle. I’m sure that Mr. Champagne, as a musician, would hate to hear me say this, but I’m going to say it anyway: what I might have enjoyed most about the evening was his pedestrial style.
To be fair, I enjoyed his music too. The lyrics flowed naturally and the music was great. He was no crooner but neither is Bob Dylan or Tom Petty and those guys pave the way. I liked that this guy seemed to so genuinely enjoy what he was doing. As soon as he started playing, he lost his shoes and let it all go. It was contagious.
Feet and I go way back. I remember holding my father’s feet in my lap when I was a little girl, no older than Lena. I remember my grandfather’s aging white feet, toenails thick and yellow. At many a Christmas gathering, my mother, my aunt, and I would sit close together, legs extended, all staring at our feet and laughing uncontrollably because they were all eerily identical.
I also remember (and this might be where it begins to get weird) many of the moments when I first saw a special pair of feet. It’s an intimate moment, isn’t it? It should be. When my husband first removed his shoes in my presence, his feet were wet with sweat and dimpled with the cotton imprints of his freshly removed running socks.
I used to work with a young man who daily roamed the floor of our engineering company barefooted. He would attend meetings in his naked feet or stroll past your cube with his coffee cup, shoeless. Some people hated it. Others said they didn’t care. Either way, everyone noticed. His shoes were always rebelliously tossed in different directions on the floor near his desk.
Now, the majority of engineers I work with are Korean. I see some of their feet too. But it’s different. Their shoes are lined respectfully at their doorsteps or cube entrances. One of them puts his shoes on a towel, a makeshift doormat; Another has a pair of slippers.
Once, I went running in my bare feet. At the edge of a maternal breakdown, I cried to the mothers in my playgroup, who pushed me out the door so I could run it off. I left my children in their care and ran, desperate; I didn’t even have my tennis shoes. The summer concrete burned and pushed me faster and farther than I thought I could go. My feet gave me sweet relief.
Maybe another reason for me to love Austin is the parade of wannabe hippies clad in sandals that reveal their feet, their toes, their personalities. I notice them daily in summer: large or small, well-groomed or not, bare or hairy, athletic or soft, supple or bony. I note protruding tendons, unique veins, birthmarks, freckles.
I have loved many feet, first my father’s and then my grandfather’s. I have admired the feet of much-loved girlfriends. I have romantically adored more masculine feet. I’ve kissed a few of them, willingly, happily: dark skinned feet that walked on lands my feet have never touched; scarred feet, with missing toenails and stories to tell; the pink-white feet of American men; the fragile, delicate feet of well-educated men; beautiful brown feet that move through soil or concrete for hours at a time, stifled, choking, to be set free finally from claustrophobic work boots.
My feet are small. Three and three-quarters inches wide by eight and one-half inches long. They are not well-groomed, not delicate or athletic. I haven’t had a pedicure in ages. But I think they’re beautiful feet. They’re practical. Functional. They take me where I want to go.
I love a good pair of feet. They’re beautiful. And practical. Functional. They take you where you want to go. Last Wednesday, I saw Thomas Champagne play Flipnotics at the Triangle. I’m sure that Mr. Champagne, as a musician, would hate to hear me say this, but I’m going to say it anyway: what I might have enjoyed most about the evening was his pedestrial style. 
To be fair, I enjoyed his music too. The lyrics flowed naturally and the music was great. He was no crooner but neither is Bob Dylan or Tom Petty and those guys pave the way. I liked that this guy seemed to so genuinely enjoy what he was doing. As soon as he started playing, he lost his shoes and let it all go. It was contagious.
Feet and I go way back. I remember holding my father’s feet in my lap when I was a little girl, no older than Lena. I remember my grandfather’s aging white feet, toenails thick and yellow. At many a Christmas gathering, my mother, my aunt, and I would sit close together, legs extended, all staring at our feet and laughing uncontrollably because they were all eerily identical.I also remember (and this might be where it begins to get weird) many of the moments when I first saw a special pair of feet. It’s an intimate moment, isn’t it? It should be. When my husband first removed his shoes in my presence, his feet were wet with sweat and dimpled with the cotton imprints of his freshly removed running socks.
I used to work with a young man who daily roamed the floor of our engineering company barefooted. He would attend meetings in his naked feet or stroll past your cube with his coffee cup, shoeless. Some people hated it. Others said they didn’t care. Either way, everyone noticed. His shoes were always rebelliously tossed in different directions on the floor near his desk.
Now, the majority of engineers I work with are Korean. I see some of their feet too. But it’s different. Their shoes are lined respectfully at their doorsteps or cube entrances. One of them puts his shoes on a towel, a makeshift doormat; Another has a pair of slippers.
Once, I went running in my bare feet. At the edge of a maternal breakdown, I cried to the mothers in my playgroup, who pushed me out the door so I could run it off. I left my children in their care and ran, desperate; I didn’t even have my tennis shoes. The summer concrete burned and pushed me faster and farther than I thought I could go. My feet gave me sweet relief.
Maybe another reason for me to love Austin is the parade of wannabe hippies clad in sandals that reveal their feet, their toes, their personalities. I notice them daily in summer: large or small, well-groomed or not, bare or hairy, athletic or soft, supple or bony. I note protruding tendons, unique veins, birthmarks, freckles.
I have loved many feet, first my father’s and then my grandfather’s. I have admired the feet of much-loved girlfriends. I have romantically adored more masculine feet. I’ve kissed a few of them, willingly, happily: dark skinned feet that walked on lands my feet have never touched; scarred feet, with missing toenails and stories to tell; the pink-white feet of American men; the fragile, delicate feet of well-educated men; beautiful brown feet that move through soil or concrete for hours at a time, stifled, choking, to be set free finally from claustrophobic work boots.
My feet are small. Three and three-quarters inches wide by eight and one-half inches long. They are not well-groomed, not delicate or athletic. I haven’t had a pedicure in ages. But I think they’re beautiful feet. They’re practical. Functional. They take me where I want to go.
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