“Anybody got a good foot guy?” I sent the text to multiple LA pals.
My right foot was giving me fits. There was shooting pain atop and below the ball with an extra dose of “Ow, god-dang it!” at the spot where a bunion is forming. It stands to reason that if one spends forty years wearing high heels on stone slab stage floors, it’s gonna take a toll on your tootsies. I always suspected there would be a price to pay for strutting around the joint in four-inch spike heels, but they were hot, and I felt gorgeous in them. The glamorous 35-year-old me did not care a whit about the possible crippling of the now nearly 65-year-old me.
I would probably do it all over again, even knowing what I know now, so I am sorry-not sorry, dear feet.
Them’s the breaks.
I found a specialist in Beverly Hills. I could tell from my interactions with his receptionist that his practice maintained a relaxed environment. This was encouraging. Finding a new doctor can be a daunting task.
I am wary of those conglomerate physician offices that have a strict twelve-minute rule. The kind where the doctor whisks in, flanked by a nurse and a person (usually a trainee) who is charged with taking notes about the whirlwind session. A few questions and a brief glance at the bloodwork, and then the doc bangs off to the next appointment leaving you wondering if he, she, they, knew you were actually in the room.
Dr. Alongi is a cheerful fellow who spent some quality time assessing my feet before arriving at the conclusion that the right one has limited mobility which is causing pain on impact. He recommends icing the foot at night, and taking pain meds for at least three days to knock back the acute aching and stabbing. I frowned at that. I am not inclined toward meds of that kind.
“Just take an Advil or Aleve regimen for three days whenever it acts up. I have the same problem, and it works,” he said.
“I am not taking Tylenol under any circumstances,” I replied, trying to hold some sort of ground.
“Me neither,” he nodded. “I am too fond of Pinot Noir, and it’s one or the other. We are not seeing any lasting damage from the other relievers, though, no kidney issues to speak of, so let’s get you on one for a few days.”
He also informed me that I must never go barefoot again, and that I will need to change my footwear. All of my footwear.
“I don’t care about fashion,” I say, though this is a bit of a stretch because I am not without vanity. “I will wear children’s balloons on my feet if it will keep me moving. You gotta keep me walking, Doc!”
He pointed to his own feet, clad in black sneaker-like shoes which had a distinct orthopedic quality. Not attractive, but they looked pretty comfy. I hobbled home and dutifully ordered the exact same ones because I am a good patient, and I need my damn feet.
Now, he is an average-to-tall-sized gentleman–maybe 5’11”–and the shoes, while not appealing to look at, were also not particularly offensive. So there was reason to believe that all would be well.
I paid the extra shipping fee in order to get mine right away. Still a bit hitch-footed, I hurried home from the UPS store where I get packages and ripped open the box. I grabbed some medium-thick socks and eagerly tried on the new kicks, then went to the hall to look in the full-length mirror. Oh dear. The proportions were entirely off. I am tall, with a bit of bust but fairly reedy from the waist down. The shoes situated at the base of my skinny legs looked huge. Enormous. Clown-sized.
Still, I am wearing them. I am walking down the street–in full public view–wearing shoes that look like two toaster ovens attached to my lower extremities.
And so, it begins.
We’ve all seen them. The elderly folks padding out in robe and slippers or–worse–sagging, worn pajama bottoms, raggedy t-shirts, and slippers, their side boob exposed and the few remaining gray/white hairs on their heads sticking out in all directions. The paper needs fetching, or the sprinklers need to be adjusted, and they don’t give a good hoot how they look doing it. They are not in the least concerned about your thoughts regarding their appearance. They’re just too damned old to care.
There was a gal in my neighborhood in Austin who insisted on wearing a too-tight, paisley-patterned top with no bra underneath. She wore it nearly every day, her seventy-five-year-old giganto knockers visible in every detail. The swung about wildly when she walked, threatening to sideswipe anyone who got too close. I am all for freeing the tatas, but a top with a bit of flow to it is advisable. She was a talker, bless her heart, and on the occasions that she got a hold of me, I got an earful for a good twenty minutes, mostly gossiping about a neighbor or fretting about the weather. She was pleasant enough, but her balding head and great flapping bazookas were a tad discomfiting.
I ordered the pasta. They had a gluten-free version available, and I can never resist. Eric got the fish, and Jeff ordered the vegetable trio, explaining that he has been indulging in a carbohydrate-heavy diet of late, and it was time to rein it in.
“I was watching a movie which chronicled the lives of models in the 80’s, and there were so many scenes of people at the gym sweating through aerobics classes and pumping iron as if their lives depended on it. I felt bad for a minute. Like, I used to be that guy. I did all that,” Jeff said, then glanced balefully at his abdomen.
We were having lunch at Mauro. Eric was in from New York, and the subject of our respective ages had been raised.
“I am trying to tell myself that it would not make sense for me to do that at sixty-three. I walk an hour a day and manage some yoga. At some point, what is appropriate has got to be good enough,” Jeff continued.
Eric nodded his head in agreement, then added that he recently read an article which said the average American gains one pound over the winter holidays, and that they never lose it.
Dang. That did not happen to me in my early days, but when a person is over sixty it looms as a distinct possibility–or moreover, an inevitability. At some point that has to become okay. At some point we have to be grateful for the signs of aging, because it means that we are here. Not everyone gets the chance to bald or hobble, or to accumulate a bit of girth.
Eric is a man of great appetites who lives his life with grace and gusto. Roxy and I have had the pleasure of coming home from a walk and encountering gorgeous music–opera or sometimes jazz–blaring from the guest bath where Eric is performing what he calls ‘his ablutions’. He will get up early to squeeze in a breakfast before lunch, to check out a place he has heard of. He carries his own maple syrup with him across cities, states, and even continents to avoid the indignity of being served an imitation version. An inveterate traveler, he is ever prepared–but not afraid–to be spontaneous. He will turn seventy this year. His waist has thickened a bit, but his heart is full and truly fearless. He is an inspiration.
Roxy and I will miss his great spirit and energy.
I said it would never happen, that they are just too unsightly, but of course I had to do it. Birkenstocks have been around forever, and have always been, to my eye, a nasty looking pair of shoes. Despite multiple testimonials by good pals as to the comfort and practicality of them, I swore I would never be caught striding about in a pair of those cloddish sandals. Then came the great crippling. Never say never.
The essence of aging is finding yourself doing things you SWORE you would never do. Finding yourself liking things you said you would never like. RV’s look fun now. Opera is in; I no longer find it too long or dramatic. Camping is out. If I cannot plug in my blow-dryer, I am not sleeping there.
I got a pair of Birkenstock slippers because they are not too, too bad to look at, and hoo-boy are they comfortable. I am going to pick up a pair of sandals at that shop tomorrow because it’s that time. The time when function is more important than form. The time when I just care about being able to walk, and not what I am seen walking in. The time when what is appropriate is just by golly going to have to be good enough.
It’s time for those of us who are blessed to be getting older to truly appreciate the time we have and love the time we are having.
On we go …
I have really enjoyed reading your blog. As someone also going through medical stuff, writing is certainly a great release. I hope you get relief soon!
Beth, make sure you wear shoes with support all the time. They do not have to be the ugly ones, but try not to even walk around the house with bare feet. I had the same problem and so I got some good orthopedic sandals that are kinda stylish and don't look horrible. In fact, I went out and bought a bunch of support shoes, but they were not all good support in the arch area, which seems to have given me the best results. Try soaking in epsom salts with a hot foot bath, and ice, like your doctor said. Try to stretch with flexing the toes toward the front of the calf! Can use a stretch band for this or just lean forward on a wall with feet away from wall. The NSAIDs should help and with time it should get better! I feel for you! Being an inpatient physician, I actually injected my own heel when it started but it actually got better with the conservative treatments.