![]() ![]() Some heels are designed in such a way that, if any fabric cuts right at the bend between bunion and toe, it looks like two little boner chubs poking out. Penny loafers look like dark brown croissants on me. They look like sheets tangled around a squirming sleeper. Ballet flats never look dainty on my feet. Worse than that, they make certain shoes look bad. The point is that my feet do not please the eye, which is fine - they’re fine! I’m lucky they exist, work and tolerate all that they do - but I don’t think they’re very attractive. This makes people very sympathetic, which I like, so I leave out the time a podiatrist told me my bunions are genetic. I repay them by detailing my my mother’s pregnancy, how I flipped over in her stomach and sat on my feet as a womb-baby, thus misshaping them forever. People love to point them out to me as though I’ve never noticed. ![]() Forever and ever, I have had bunions, which have only gotten knobbier and crankier with time. My thing with feet, my need to study what they look like, is centered around the shape of my own. Men, get yours all the way away from me with your long-ass nails. By “everyone’s” I mean my fellow women’s. I stare at everyone’s feet, all the time, in shoes and out of shoes, socked and not socked. Nothing about anyone’s feet gets me going, if we’re being honest - which we are, because this is my big Honesty Month “confession,” but my interest in feet does border awfully close to obsessed. I wouldn’t exactly say I have a foot fetish because nothing about toes turns me on. ![]()
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