Pretty Feet

I used to think this was an oxymoron. Feet to me are usually unattractive. The expression, "My dogs are barking" in reference to aching feet makes complete sense to me. But what prompted this post was my friend's comment on the last one that I had nice legs but my feet were a different story.

Growing up, my older brother was so repulsed by the site of my feet that he would throw something over them if I dared prop them on the coffee table. Or worse, he would pretend to gag if he sat down next to me with a bowl of cereal and happened to glance down. Yep, my older brother was a gem. He could have effortlessly authored a book on cruelty to sisters. I find it fitting that his wife grows her toenails as long as her fingernails and files them to a point. And they bear a striking resemblance to mine. Poetic justice.

All of this had the same effect on me as the chicken leg comments. I didn't wear flip-flops or open toe shoes until after college. My toes didn't see the light of day until they made their debut on New Year's Eve, got stepped on and eventually became part of a bimonthly ritual of being buffed and polished by small Asian women. Ever since I've recovered from the cruel judgments about my peds, I've gotten nothing but random compliments about them. "You have pretty feet," friends will note while shoe-shopping. Who'da thunk it? But in the interest of fairness, I'll put those harbingers of pedestrian confidence on display for you to judge. I'm gonna ask you to refrain from telling me what you think.

It was a good lunch day

My friend Nicole sent me this Ecard on the left. The entire collection of cards they have are hilarious in a Pulp Fictionesque/disturbing kind of way. I was going to withhold the site name but you guys are smart cookies so I'll save you the trouble. See them here. Guess who I want to send the one below to?
And BINGO was his name-o! I'm happy to report that I had a very satisfying lunch today. And from the most unlikeliest of places- McDonald's. I got their new southwest chicken salad. It's actually some of the best tex-mex food I've had in New York, a sad testament to Mexican cuisine in a city known for its culinary feats of grandeur.

I'm wearing a dress today. While that may not sound like a big deal, it is. I haven't worn a dress to work since 1999, at least. I've mentioned before that my skinny legs are the reason why. I remember one of my male coworkers asking me what I did with the rest of the chicken back in 1998. Just after college, as I was graduating from a voice-training class, our sadistic teacher had the bright idea to have us admit our first impressions of other classmates. I know, recipe for disaster. I'll never forget the big-boned black chic who looked at me with disdain and said, "You were wearing shorts and I couldn't figure out why someone with such skinny legs would choose to show them off." Because it was hot, bitch! Anyway, this was enough to give me significant pause (uh, almost a decade's worth) before I donned a dress to work again.

But last week, I couldn't resist a Diane Von Furstenberg silk shirt dress I scored for half price at Barney's. It fit me perfectly. This morning my trainer, a former minor league baseball player who looks and sounds like Michael Rappaport, told me I was crazy when I told him I don't wear dresses and why. "I would never think that if I saw your legs. Now if you had cankles, my heart would go out to you." He's a nice guy unlike many of his cohorts from Bensonhurst. It makes me feel feminine and men are noticing me more than they usually do. But that may be because I forgot to wear a slip.