If my feet could talk, they would be hoarse. I think the sound would be barely audible and tremulous. (a word I taught this week in my class) I would have to strain and work to hear what they had to say and then I would hear begging, I believe. They would be imploring me to work less, to sit more, and to avoid those hard classroom floors. They would plead for more time spent in the rocking chair in my reading area.
If my feet could talk, they might be apologizing for being so cranky. They would point out that being 53 years old isn't easy on the feet, you know. They would remind me of the years of waitressing when my feet were never a worry to me. They held me well then and never complained one bit. They would remind me of the years of sports competitions where I shoved them into ill fitting cleats designed by and for men/boys. More than 35 years of running, jogging, sprinting, kicking, sliding...well you get the idea. Mostly all thanks to titleix. I was one of those girls who got to play sports in high school in 1975-1978 all as a result of Title IX. My feet were more than happy to oblige (another word I taught this week) at the time as we took to the practice fields right next to the boys teams.
If my feet could talk today they would urge (another new word) me to find a foot massage today. They would whisper gently but insistently (yes, one more) that just a short massage would do wonders to rehabilitate them for next week. My feet would not care that there is no one in my house that will do that for me. They would stand firm (ha.) and compel me to find someone to pamper them.
If my feet could talk they would likely tell me to suck it up! What did I expect when I took this job? Was I unaware that teaching could not be done sitting down? Well, then. It is what it is. My feet would softly suggest I stop dwelling on them, take a few Advil, and enjoy the weekend. Maybe, just maybe, enjoy it from a seated position. Just saying, They could use a rest, you know.
