Most people don’t pay attention to their feet. Not unless they smell, are cold, or hurting.
Well, mine hurt. All the time, it feels like. I have what’s known as pes planus, fallen arches, or flat feet, meaning my feet meet the ground with their entire surface all at once. This doesn’t sound too serious, until you realize how much the body relies on the feet. When the arches fall, they drag everything down with them. The knee position shifts, resulting in pain radiating from the patella all the way down the shin. With weak knees comes weak posture, which leads to lower back pain, general clumsiness, and the grating sound of dragging feet. Also, they’re damned expensive: regular shoes are not designed to handle them, so I go through a pair of good quality sneakers in one season. For as long as I remember, I have hated my flat feet.
This fixation has made it so I notice other people’s feet, as well. Beauty catches my eye—long shapes, clear skin, healthy colours—but what I really admire is function. The most stunning feet are like well-oiled machines. A gymnast’s, for example, or a boxer’s. What matter they’re battered like chicken breast soon to become a schnitzel? Those feet carry careers. Like locomotives, horses, or martial artists, higly functional feet trigger some kind of primal awe in me. It’s not just their sheer physicality that compels me, either. Feet are the body’s foundation, and a strong one is easy to spot. People with strong feet look confident, self-assured, and full of energy. Beholding them, it seems to me impossible that they don’t also feel that way. When you can trust your body to carry you where you need to go, what could stop you?
Conversely, weakness of the body begets weakness of the mind. Without a strong foundation to rely on, the ground you stand on shifts to sand. Your sense of self erodes, becomes porous, like concrete. I’ve never felt that I possess a clear vision of who I am. My identity is easily corrupted by my circumstances, and I find myself more or less direct, fashionable, talkative, amusing, erudite, depending on where I am or whom I’m speaking with. I have grown to blame all this, and more, on my feet. Every time a superstitious relative or friend prompts me to make a wish—upon a falling star, on New Year’s, or just before eating something for the first time—all I can think about are normal feet. I’ve often “gotten drunk on cold water”, as we say in Romania, convincing myself that should my flat feet go away, they’d take with them my anxiety, my acute need to be acknowledged, my introversion.
As I get older, I find it easier to accept my predicament. Because one can’t live well in a constant state of war, I’ve been looking for ways to improve the rapport between my self and my feet. I’ve taken up an exercise routine for my arches, designed to make them strong and handsome, and this has somewhat alleviated my pain. I’ve also tried to be more mindful in my choice of footwear, placing comfort and support above looks. I won’t say it’s made a world of difference. Just that some mornings I get out of bed and the first thing I notice isn’t how rough the carpet feels on my insteps, or how deformed a new pair of slippers has gotten, or that another callosity has developed somewhere.
I’d love to one day find a positive side to pes planus. Discover something only a guy with pancake feet can do, like those lizards able to run on water on their weird, fork-like legs. Until such time, I will settle for a little less pain, a little less wishful thinking, and a little more trust. If my inadequate frame has borne me this far, the least I can do is relax, breathe deeply, and believe it will keep doing so.
From the archives:
Bones - How many have you broken?
No Mayonnaise, Please! - The weird things we do to belong.