They's my magic shoes

I have been splintless for the last few days – not so much because my foot feels normal again, but because my splint got really gross. The Velcro on the sole of the splint had collected an assortment of items from the outdoors – pine needles, leaves, small twigs, squirrels – and from the indoors – cat hair, rabbit hair, BPW hair (thank god Foxy doesn’t shed). Plus, the thing had been on my foot for a couple of weeks, and that’s just nasty.

Anyway, I think I’ve discovered the source of my unexplained pep this week. Since relegating my splint to the Corner of Useless Things in my bedroom, I’ve been wearing sneakers (tennies? Trainers? Running shoes? What does one call them?). I thought tying something tight around my foot would help immobilize it and make it easier for me to get around. As it turned out, applying a great deal of pressure to my injury doesn’t feel too hot. Still, the sneakers keep my toes warm in my sub-zero office.

Back to my pep: wearing sneakers makes me bouncier, a bounciness which, previously, I could only achieve by going braless. When I wear my sneakers, I sporadically feel the urge to toss my leg up on the admin desk to stretch my hamstring (or quadriceps? What do I know about physiology?), like I’m getting ready for some big race to the Planetarium. Or sometimes I’ll just kick out a Rockette high kick, to prove to myself that I can still do it. Not that I used to be a Rockette – I think I’m 8 inches too short – I just used to be extremely flexible at one point in time.

These urges never surface when I’m wearing other footwear; there’s just something in that cushioned footbed that transforms me into a professional cheerleader grapevining across an Astroturf field (not the kind of professional cheerleader who has sex in bathroom stalls, though; I believe I would need an entirely different pair of shoes to feel like her).

The biggest downside to my sneakers is that they’re a bit trickier to clean up than my usual work shoes, my beloved – and broken – Chaco sandals. When the giant toad pees on my feet, I can just go stick my sandaled feet under some running water and be done with it. Our giant toad, by the way, is quite a sight; he’s the size of a dinner plate and so unattractive that he’s gone back to being cute. I know I shouldn’t say this, but he’s my favorite animal. Shh, don’t tell the others.

Anyway, if the toad pees on my sneakered feet, yes, my feet are protected from the actual urine, but then I’ve got a bigger mess to clean up. I can’t just hose off my shoes because then I’ll have to wear soaking wet sneakers all day, and that’s far worse than my shoes smelling like toad piss for a short period of time.

So, there you have it: my sneakers make me peppy, and at times, pissy.