Vent sesh 16.09.09

One thing I regret from my thirteen years as a gymnast: I was left with two bad feet, weak ankles, and knees that I hope won’t need replacing any time soon. So when it comes to my job, standing for eight+ hours a day on hard tile or cement floors with shitty shoes is just plain awful. After the first day, I wanted to cut my feet off. The second, well, my toes started going numb but not in a good way. When the feet situation didn’t improve, my parents responded like the saints that they are, and sent me a pair of Danskos which, for those of you who don’t know, are the perfect working/service shoes for women. Sleek, professional, and like medicine (definitely prescription strength) for my aching legs and toes. Five to ten business days felt like f-o-r-e-v-e-r, but finally, my lovely package arrived this morning. Hallelujah! I slipped my impatient feet into those clogs... the artfully crafted soles--no, these are not just shoes--and omg. Like butter. It was a match. A perfect match. And best of all, they felt like a piece of home since they came shipped oozing parental love. So to say that I headed off to the night shift with a new spring in my step is an understatement. I was practically skipping up the stairs with my shiny new shoes like my five-year-old self in the infamous ‘party shoes’ my parents had to pry of my itty-bitty feet.

With about thirty minutes left in my shift--we were all waiting anxiously for one table to pick up and leave--the manager for the evening gathered the five of us working persons together for a quickie meeting. And yes, I bet you can guess where this is going. Well, apparently, it’s not my fault and I’m not the only one with “unsuitable shoes” but the sole is too big and the patent leather is a no-go--even though, everyone else has shoes with patent leather as well. (WTF?!) He was making an example with my shoes, he said. When I calmly asked what I should wear instead (while inside I was fuming), he said 'ballerina flats.' BALLERINA FLATS. Fuck that. Fuck fucking shoes. And ballerina flats?? No fucking way. I WILL die. Or rather, my feet will die first and I will follow shortly after when the gangrene takes over my aching body. Okay, yes, I’m exaggerating just a tad. And yes, they’re just shoes. But considering that I worked my way through one pair in only three weeks (the ones I originally bought are already destroyed with holes and rips all), you can see why they’re kind of important.

I don’t have to go out and buy a new pair tomorrow, but on my next day off, I’ll go to Lausanne and see what I can find. In the meantime, I regretfully removed my old shoes from the garbage can--so much for ceremoniously tossing them in there in the first place--and added the insoles that my mom included in the package (thank you thank you thank you). For now though, I’m rocking my Danskos even though they make me stick out as an American (Mom, you were so right on this one). God I miss being barefoot all the time. Life was just so much simpler then. Maybe I’ll have some good dreams tonight... Of sand between my toes, earth beneath my bare feet, and a world where shoes are unnecessary and excessive. Humph. Fat chance. Hello real world!

P.S. Mission Beach, I miss you. Black feet and all.