Feet. Or fate. I
was standing in the shower just now thinking of what to get you for Valentine’s Day, when I looked
down at my feet.
You love me in spite of them.
Remember the Eddie Murphy movie with Halle Berry? He had to
check her feet before he knew for certain he loved her? I always worried about
that — the sight of my feet, and how they might effect your affection.
So much
so, my feet tend to be stuffed into boots (see there is an explanation for my boot fetish!), or running shoes. They are
battered and worn. They are not things of beauty. Open toed sling backs have never
been my thing.
I only recently succumbed to pedicures — after standing barefoot
in yoga for hours, bent in half (like a Japanese ham sandwich!), staring at my toes. I always felt them
undeserved of such fine treatment. But
then, I had to look at them all the time. I learned to love pedicures.
Just like I l learned to love my feet. They have gotten me through nearly 45
years of life — 25 of them spent with you. There were
times when our feet walked in different directions. But they found their way
back.
I know we will be okay if, at the end of the day after all this time, yours still connect with mine under the
covers at night.
Your feet, in sharp contrast to mine, are things of beauty. We first
met because of your feet. Sitting in a political science seminar, I looked over
and saw them. They were stuffed into boat shoes of the kind I knew only people
from Lake Erie tended to wear. Then I found them to be quite nice with nothing on them, at all.
Growing up, you could walk a straight line down the lake
road from your house to mine — about a million feet. But we didn't know each other then.
So you see, our feet were fated. And feted, we shall be.
Yours, truly.
