37
My feet are small.
Their front is wider than the heel. The toes are kind of tiny. The smallest of them has a freak nail, that only grows half of it...some theories say it is symptomatic of an advanced level of species evolution. Just like having merely 2 wisdome teeth, rather than 4...The middle toe's nail decided that it will not keep to the horizontal path its brothers have embraced. And up, up it goes, to the exasperation of my once-upon-a-season pedicurist.
Their bottom grew thick, where my weight seems to squeeze the most, along the numerous paths they were to tread. Those would be the big toe, the bulky foot knuckle under it, and the heel.
My feet are small, too small for my width. They fit my not-so-high height, 1.60 cm, nevertheless. But too small for my breadth. It's not their fault, but mine.
My feet are not lucky. Their numerous casings haven't been gentle to them. Battered, blistered, burnt, squeezed, torn, contorted, they have given up on the mundane, fashion seeking choice of attire. They prematurely opted for comfort, the choice of the old, and wise. Still they envy how slick and elegant other feet look embracing stilettos. They just wouldn't want to know how they feel.
My feet are exhibitionists, they prefer the outdoors, hate their shoes. They like sand engulfing them, or a clear, crisp stream water running gently between their toes, or the fizzy splash of waves recurrently reminding them how good life can be.
But my feet are tired. Overused. Unfairly treated. Abused.
They roamed unbeaten paths, gone far to satisfy their curiosity.
My feet are stupid. They walked the lines, danced for hours, jumped of joy. They could never rest, were doomed to move eternally, seeking tranquil waters to rest in.
My feet are traitors. Always walked me into the same trap. Over. And over. And over again.
My feet...who would've thought a harmless, cute, duo could do all this harm?
And they're just a size 37!