Soft-soled shoes

Today was my annual trip to the podiatrist to have my hoof sanded down. I have sustained many lingering injuries over the course of my life - a mysterious fractured foot, repetitive-stress wear and tear to my knees from obsessive running - and, during the year, these injuries lead to the buildup of callouses on my feet. At the injuries' worst, I feel like Black Beauty or Seabiscuit, two horses whose own foot problems led to high-stepping drama on the racing circuit. Unlike Black Beauty, however, I don't have to be destroyed; instead, once or twice a year, I go to a podiatrist to have the callouses shaved off. I like my current podiatrist, but on occasion I have felt that other podiatrists were getting more satisfaction from handling my feet than could possibly have been intended. I suppose that, were I a "foot man," I would become a podiatrist, as well. No one speaks of "foot men" anymore these days - have you noticed that? Perhaps they have gone and retained themselves a good publicist.

Today, my podiatrist idly inquired whether I had watched the Grammy's, and, rather than replying, I went on a strange tear about internet rumors about Justin Bieber. That he is really a 50-year-old man with a degenerative disease. That Usher is his lover. Etc., etc. Actually, I have not actually seen the rumors personally, but they are related to me by the young people in my department at work. Sometimes I think they make things up to tell me to get a reaction out of me, because they think I am insane. But I am merely a harmless eccentric ...

I left the podiatrists' office with a spring in my step, and a bottle of fungicide in my pocket. (I have a mysterious discoloration on my right big toe, and it has persisted, surprisingly, for years. This spring, I vow to wear sandals without socks for the first time in recent memory, whether it makes me even more of a pariah amongst the gays than I currently am). I looked down at my soft-soled shoes - the cross to bear of anyone with recurrent callouses - and mused to myself that this is often how I picture myself, when I think of myself: as a pair of shoes, walking down the street. Of course, this is because I can't literally look at myself, unless I am looking in a mirror. I can only look down at my legs and feet, and venture a hopeless guess as to the rest.