Roast beef toe is having a hellish week.
I inherited my mother’s flat feet.
And I can’t blame my Indian ancestors.
My Rez relatives have the most beautiful, most slim feet you have ever seen.
It is as if Samuel Morton’s pronouncements of race spark a cinder of vérité. In 1839 he wrote:
Notwithstanding the general custom of going barefoot, the American Indians possess remarkably small feet, and their hands have the same delicate conformation.
But Morton misunderstood: not all Indians are alike.
First daughter (Wak-o-apa) and I have sad, sore pancake feet.
We’d win the Daisy Duck-foot look-a-like contest in a heartbeat.
I blame my French and English forebears.
Doctors tried to change my gait by prescribing old-lady shoes and giving me foot exercises when I was a lass.
Instead I went barefoot and forgot the exercises.
My mother just shrugged.
Perhaps she gave up on the strong-willed girl.
In July, my honey and I spent 2 weeks in London and surrounding areas walking.
Well, he walked and I waddled.
Turns out we trekked 140 miles in 12 days, according to his iPhone.
Roast beef toe came home and groaned and complained.
Seems the metatarsal is spent.
But I ignore the complaints: forget the toe, the ball, the heel.
That’s what I do best.