Walking

I like my feet,
because without them,
I'm be totally stranded.

When I first moved to Boston from small town Texas, I wasn't used to walking. I went on nature walks. I had a dog. I certainly used my feet. I loved a good foot massage followed by a thick layer of peppermint foot lotion and then slipping into cotton socks. I was a pretty, pretty princess and I didn't even know it!

Shortly, after starting college, it took me 10 minutes to walk from my dorm to class. It happened every single day. My ankles hurt. My feet hurt. I remember, one day, 25 minutes late to class and pushing my self as fast as possible, tears streaming down my cheeks as I rushed by strangers on the sidewalk. My feet hurt. I walked a lot. Maybe too much. But I didn't have much choice. I rarely splurged my dollars to take the T, I had used CDs, clothes by the pound and pizza slices to buy, so my feet became my best friends. I abused them. I wore Chuck Taylors, flip flops and my freshman 15 weren't exactly helping either. Eventually, plantar fasciitis struck and I learned that I had to treat my feet with respect. I learned to stretch them before going on long walks. My pains slowly faded away, but I'll never be a runner. I can't wear heels, and unfortunately, my favorite chucks are in the back of my closet. I still have pain in my right knee, but that's okay. I take it day by day and my feet handle it just fine. I easily walk two or three miles without even thinking about it now. I'm not bragging.

I just don't know how to drive, and I like it that way.