The plantar fasciitis continues.
You remember. It's when nipples grow on the bottom of your feet. Except I'm pretty sure that's not what happens at all. I think it has something to do with the tendon or muscle or something on the bottom of your foot that isn't stretched enough or becomes too stretched or whatever. And also, there's a sack that fills with fluid. Every time I tell people about this "sack of fluid" I can't help but feel dirty.
I'm a girl. Girls don't have "sacks."
Ugh. This whole thing is a grave injustice. The gravest injustice the world has ever known. And not just because of the "sack." But because I have to wear tennis shoes. Me + tennis shoes = not a good look. I mean, I guess it's fine if I were to say, play tennis, which I can't. Because of the sack. And the nipples. Or something.
But me + tennis shoes + a suit (ya know, for work) = giant-douche-who-should-not-be-allowed-out-with-civilized-society.
You'd probably be inclined to believe I am exaggerating if not for the fact that we all know I never do that.
People are telling me I've got that whole "New York City look" going on. I would be flattered except I prefer the whole "New York City runway model" (minus the eating disorder) look, not the "1980s-bad perm-giant shoulder pads-New York City" look.
I wear heels for a reason. Not just because I look oh-so-sexy when I do, but because they're kind of a necessity. I'm not exactly what you would call tall. In fact, some people may even say I'm short.
In fact, a lot of people say this to me. They say it as if this has somehow escaped my attention. As if I had no idea. As if I walk around with delusions of one day playing in the WNBA.
"WHAT?! I'M SHORT?!! ARE YOU SERIOUS? PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE JOKING."
My favorite is when people ask me my height. "Oh, you want to know my height? I'll tell you as soon as you tell me how wide your ass is. Seriously, how big is that thing? You had to have the jeans custom made, didn't you?"
You see, I need heels. If only so I don't sound like a giant bitch.
Also? I've developed this walk. I'm not sure how to describe it except to say it is not good. I've been walking that way for six weeks and now? I don't know how to walk normally.
I try, really I do. But it's so hard (that'swhatshesaid!). My mom and I were at Sports Authority trying to find me new tennis shoes/running shoes/shoes that people who exercise wear, and everytime I tried on a pair I would walk down the aisle, look over my shoulder and ask my mom, "Am I doing it right?!"
My mom: No, you look like an idiot.*
Finally the plucky lad that was helping us was all, "uh, what are you doing?"
And I was all, "I have plantar fasciitis. I forgot how to walk. I walk heel-toe with my right foot and toe-heel with my left foot."
He gave me a look that said you have issues to which I responded you have no idea.
I brought some shoes and have been trying really hard to do what most people have mastered by one? One and a half? Two? I don't know, I'm not a baby expert.
I'm sure by now you all agree that plantar fasciitis, heel pain, wearing tennis shoes, being forced to be a bitch, walking while rubbing my groin (what?!) is a terrible injustice. You are ready to rise up in protest, contact your state's governer, write letters to Congress, demand an audience with the President, make fancy signs with glitter and a catchy rhyme.
But wait! Don't make those signs of protest just yet, becasue I am about to share something even more tragic. I know you don't think it can get any worse, but it does. Much worse.
(You really shouldn't stand on the side of the road waving those things at zooming cars anyway; you're going to cause an accident and everyone will be mad at you and you'll blame me and we'll get in this big fight, but we're girls so it will be a passive-aggressive fight and instead of just talking to each other about what happened we'll say everything's "fine" and talk about each other behind our backs and the men in our lives will be so sick of hearing about it they'll throw chairs at us and go to jail for battery where they'll get tatoos, join a gang and become drugs addicts forcing us to break up with them and with no one else to turn to we'll lean on each other for support and be all, "I love you," "no. I love you." and it will be like the whole thing never happened making the crazy drama of the last six weeks completely pointless and causing our men to be tatted up crack head gang members for no good reason.)
I would tell you to "brace yourselves" for what I am about to share, but there really is no way to prepare for the gravest tragedy of all.
My friend J is starting to potty-train her daughter, C.
J bought her a special potty to pee on.
C's like, "thanks, but no thanks, not interested."
But one day she will be interested and she'll be all, "I'm tired of peeing in my diaper, that's so May 2011."
And she will go to the specail potty and pee.
And the special potty...
In summary, C has a potty that will sing when she pees.
Does not sing when I pee...
CAN YOU THINK OF ANYTHING MORE TRAGIC?
*you don't actually think my mom said that, do ya?**
**because she totally did***
***no she didn't****
****yes she did*****
*****no she didn't******
******are you still reading?*******
*******you should find something more productive to do, like make signs and wave them at cars on the highway