I love going barefooted. When I was a kid the soles of my feet were so tough I could walk from our old Ford to the concession stand of the drive in theater without as much as a wince.
“Don’t those rocks hurt your feet, little girl?”
“No sir. I’m from North Carolina.”
I loved running barefooted up and down the dirt road in front of my house, stomping on the clumps left behind by the road scraper.
I kick my shoes off the minute I get home – immediately placing them out of reach of Arlo and Darcy. (I have no one but myself to blame if one of them chews up a shoe. How are they supposed to know the difference between a shoe and a doggy toy?)
I love pedicures. They don’t have to be expensive like the holistic pedicure with crystals that I had in Sedona. The $25 pedicures at Xtremeties are just fine. I love having my size 11 feet scrubbed, exfoliated, massaged and painted by Mimi, Sarah and Linda. Those aren’t their real names. The owner of the Salon gives them American names. The only English they speak is “make shorter?” and “too hot?” but that’s fine as it eliminates any need for conversation. I can just sit back in my massaging chair, read my Kindle and enjoy my pedicure.
I was raised a Baptist. I loved the foot washing ceremony. My Aunt Irene taught me how to do it. Carefully moving the basin in place, tying the white dish towel around her waist, sloshing the water over my feet.
“You’re not actually washing the feet, honey. It’s just a symbol. Just dribble the water over the foot. Now you do it to me.”
I miss my Aunt Irene. I miss the intimacy of dribbling water over her veined feet and daubing them dry with a dish towel.