So I get up this morning. And all of a sudden, out of no-freaking-where. I can’t walk. The heel on my left foot screams out in pain as soon as it hits the floor.
I’m thinking…what in the?
I’m talking serious pain. I’m talking, maybe-I-should-just-walk-on-my-toes-although-that-seems-insane kind of pain.
But I’m a mother with things to do, children to ferry. So I shrug it off. Get dressed. Trying to think of what to wear on my feet for maximum comfort.
Here are all the shoes in my rotation right now:
Just copped these recently. And I live in them. They were kind of pricey, at least for me. But worth it. They go with everything I own. I can wear them over skinny jeans, under bootcut jeans, with skirts, dresses. Everything. They were super tight and uncomfortable at first. Now they’re starting to fit my feet. Can’t get the left one off without help, though….
These are my errand-running flats. They’re a little busted. But I took this picture up close. They don’t look quite that crazy from afar. I like them because even when I’m schlepping, I look slightly pulled together. A Target dress and these joints and I look halfway decent…And they are super comfortable.
These are my date-night shoes. They’re kind of weird looking. But I like ’em. And they’re comfortable too.
And of course, I have these joints. My favorite shoes of all.
Obviously not a Saturday morning shoe. But still. Love these joints.
I also have athletic shoes and rain boots and blah blah blah. But I’m not really a shoe girl. I’ve got one shoe in every category.
So, today, in light of my heel pain, I go for the Seychelles ballet flat.
Drop TG off at art class. Take Tog with me to have coffee with a friend. And throughout it all, my heel is on fire! By the time I go pick TG up from art class, I’m literally limping.
Drop TG off at a birthday party. Bring Tog home for a nap. I can barely get her up the stairs.
Finally, here I sit, on the couch. The plan was to clean the house from top to bottom. It’s a wreck. But instead, on the couch I sit, my heel throbbing.
I never think about my feet. They’re just those things at the end of my legs that I dress up in fancy shoes occasionally. They’re functional and I never think about them causing me pain. Foot pain is like a toothache. Once it really gets bad, you can’t do anything else.
I google foot pain and heel. Five minutes later, I’ve diagnosed myself.
I’ve got plantar fascitis.
I’m getting old. That’s my first thought. Old folks always have foot issues. Corns. Bunions. Hammertoes. Plantar stuff.
So, what’s the solution? I have to stay off my feet. (How the heck do I do that with a two year old?!) I have to stretch my plantar muscles. (I notice it feels good when I stand on the steps and let my heel hang off the edge.) A few web sites mention rolling the foot over a frozen bag of corn as an ice pack and stretching mechanism. Again, how the heck do I do that with a two year old?
Oh. And the other thing I have to do?
Wear supportive shoes.
I know exactly where this is going. And I. don’t. like. it.
When I was knocked up, I gained sixty pounds. (Yes. Sixty. Don’t judge me.)
Towards the end, my back was on fire. A parenting website suggested Dansko clogs. I bought these:
I got ’em in dark brown leather, not the shiny version here. either way. UGLY. Gruesome. Where’s the style here? But once I slipped my feet in, all bets were off. My back immediately felt better. And since I wasn’t rocking stilettos anyway, I didn’t mind the sacrifice. I was wearing tents. These shoes were my tent poles. Not a problem.
Gave birth. Dropped excess poundage. Clogs went in the way-back of my closet. I gave TG’s mom all my maternity clothes when she was pregnant earlier this year. Tried to throw in the shoes too. She said, “um, no thanks. I’d rather just have a backache.”
Well. Here I am. Limping around the house in my ballet flats. I took two Tylenol. Not working. Tog is asleep–for now. But when she wakes up, I’ll have to walk. No getting around it.
Whatever shall I do.
I go in the back of my closet and get out the awful shoes. I slip my feet in. And they feel…better.
Not clean-up-the-house better. But run-around-after-Tog better.
Everything I’ve read about plantar fascitis says that if we were able to just stay off our feet completely for six weeks, the pain would disappear. But obviously, that’s not realistic.
Have a nice day in the sunshine, with your Havianas and your cute sandals and your fun day in the park.
Don’t mind me. I’ll be here on the couch, trying to keep my feet up. And if I do venture out…well, I’ll be looking like a big dork.