We went for a short wilderness walk last week, enjoying the splashing of trout in the placid waters of tiny Loon Lake. We only met one other group of hikers: a family with a dog.
On the way back, Hubby pointed down at the trail. “Don’t step in the dog shit.”
I eyed the flattened pile with a sneaker-print in the middle of it, and revolting certainty filled me. I knew that sneaker-print.
Sure enough, I’d already stepped in it on our outbound trip.
Which begs the question: What are the chances of being out back of beyond with virtually unlimited landing zones for my feet, and STILL stepping in the only pile of dog shit within ten square miles?
If you’re me, the chances are approximately 100%.
Maybe it’s because I’ve got big feet, so the odds are better than average. If I wore teeny little size-sixes I might spend less time cleaning objectionable substances out of my treads. (Then again, if I wore teeny little size-sixes at my height, I’d probably topple over in a high wind.)
But in general I don’t think too much about my feet or where they’re landing. They’re far away from the rest of me; and as long as they’re working fine, I let them do their thing. They’re functional, not decorative.
Okay, definitely not decorative. Some people are blessed with slim elegant feet and delicate toes or cute little chubby tootsies; but I inherited the Henders family’s knobby bunions and weird long prehensile toes. I’m not sure how being able to pick up a pencil from the floor without bending over gives me an evolutionary advantage; but at least studies show that long toes make better sprinters.
I figure hooves would have been more practical. How wonderful to never again smash my toes on a table leg. Never to have my toes stepped on or crushed by falling objects. No blisters from ill-fitting shoes. And never having to shop for shoes at all – just an appointment with the farrier every now and then, and I’d be good to go.
But then again, the farrier would be like going for a pedicure, with the worrisome addition of red-hot metal. *shudders*
I had a pedicure… once. The foot massage was nice; but having a stranger wield sharp objects near my feet was disturbing, and the toenail polish was wasted on me. Nobody ever sees my toes – I hate having cold feet so I never wear sandals. (Also: Weird prehensile toes. Nobody wants to see that.)
Or maybe my antipathy to sandals (and my unfortunate magnetism for merde) was born the year I marched in the 4-H parade as a kid. Our uniforms dictated white sneakers for the boys and white sandals for the girls, and there was a prize for the club with the best synchronized marching. We were determined to win it.
We marched behind the Beef Club.
Yep, you guessed it: Right in my path was a fresh cow patty, and my precise marching step landed my foot in the middle of it. You haven’t lived until you’ve had warm cow shit oozing up between your bare toes. We didn’t even win the marching contest, dammit.
And that kicked off my lifetime of stepping in it. Anybody know where I can buy some shoe diapers…?