Well, here we go again. My feet, once again, are causing a ruckus. I would say they have become infamous. Most folks in this neck of the woods would not be surprised that my shoes were quickly tossed aside during our recent springtime temps. “Good riddance,” I say. “Ah, freedom at last,” my tootsies say.
So I took my naked appendages for a test run, walking boldly down Madison Road on a 70-degree day. I had forgotten what a commotion this often causes. One car slowed down and checked me out, apparently trying to decide what, if anything, should be done with me. Another car stopped and the man on the passenger side asked me if I needed a pair of shoes. If it had been January and there was snow on the ground, I would have said yes and been most grateful to him. However, on a warm sunny day there was no need. Which I told him. And off he went.
So I thought we were done with all of this. Apparently we were not. The next day my neighbor told me that a state trooper, seeing him out in his yard, stopped and asked him if he had seen a woman with no shoes walking by, because someone had called and reported her. Oh no, I’m going to have to go on the lam! I decided to turn myself in. I stopped at the office of our resident state trooper and told him that I am always the one these calls are about, and that I am just fine, and really, I just hate shoes, and I will be barefoot until the winter, and they will probably be getting more calls.The man could not have been any nicer. He said he was not the one who took the call, but he understands because he hates shoes, too. A kindred spirit!
If you have been following my little “foot saga” over the years, you may recall that this is not the first time my feet have caused an uproar. This time things went smoothly for me, but past incidents have involved police sirens and interrogations and a demand for identification. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that the SWAT team wasn’t called in. The post office does not put up flyers about wanted criminals anymore, but I suspect that if they did, my feet would be up there. Have you seen these feet? Wide enough to paddle a canoe. Bunions the size of doorknobs. Toes that can’t seem to decide which way they want to go. In sore need of a pedicure, or perhaps a trip to the blacksmith.
I anticipate a neighborhood watch, with people putting up signs that say “Lost, one pair of shoes. Please contact the Barefoot Woman.” My shoes are not lost. They are in the back of the closet, where they belong.
I think the next time someone stops me, with that concerned look on their face, I will ask them what, exactly, worries them so. I’m not worried, and I don’t think they should be, either. I think the world is not ready for anyone who steps (barefoot, of course) outside the box. I should get a shirt that says, “I’m fine. I just love being barefoot.”
So, dear friends, as the warm weather draws closer, you yourself may want to think about casting off those torture chambers that you call shoes. And if you want to go for a walk together, I’m game. I hope the sirens don’t bother you.
You get used to them.