My feet are closet-nudists

Posted on March 9, 2009

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or, the Confederation of Footwear Makers in Malls and Roadside Alike (CFMMRA) are all plotting against me and my feet.

I was considering titling this “My foot”. But since I pen a lot of bad puns for a living already, I decided to make a difference this one time.

Anyhow.

As every twit acquainted with the female psyche knows, every woman planted on god’s green Earth has a problem with some/all part/s of her anatomy. You will hear even she-gazelles bitching (ha ha!) to each other about their flabby hind-limbs, shapeless fore-limbs, and even the poor choice the maker made with their hooves.

Similarly, my grouse is directed at my feet.

A look at them will reveal that they bear startling resemblance to rectangles. A closer look will reveal tendencies towards the trapezium. (A look closer than that is not advised – my pedi is still due.)

A casual observation of how I handle things as delicate as flowers will reveal that every word-association test that has me as stimulus will take, at least, six to eight rounds before arriving at the word, “gentle”.

Putting two very complexly constructed sentences together, we arrive at the plain, simple truth: I am the aforementioned CFMMRA’s best challenge yet. Deprived of shapeliness, in dire need of durability.

If you think this is a rant on the lack of options, you are not paying attention.
There is no person on Earth who has bad karmic feet to match mine.

First, my chappals choose to break at most opportune places. In Koshy’s, when I’m just about sighting cute stranger. At the pool. In the dingy parking lot. On the terrace. Under the stairs. Between meetings. Just about anywhere where I have:

a) no alternative
b) alternatives I’d rather not have.

My latest foot-horror has been acquired at an instance of b). It is a pair of mild-yellow, jarringly plastic-looking ballerina shoes, with what look like pin-tucks on the front. There are two things vying for position of cherry on top: The gold band that runs around the heels, and the little bow.

Second, CFMMRA just cannot dress rectangles. Each time I try out a CFMMRA creation, my feet come out feeling more hideous. Kind of like what designer brands do to normal, non-size 0 people when they step out of trial rooms. What kind of moron designs footwear in the name of lopsided hourglasses, anyway? Why are these slippers remarkably huge at the toes, and why do they taper like fancy spatulas? Are they spatulas? Is there a second usage to this couture that CFMMRA has forgotten to clue me in on?

Third, old jungle saying. Sandals and sneakers will not go with everything, thou can’t bail. I’m reminded of my school librarian who chose to break the word quite often – teaming pretty pink chikan salwars, with white tennis sneakers. Going by how this daring precedent went, I’m fated to be a foot fashion failure.

Just who do I sue? Genetics? CFMMRA? The other maker?

Bleh. I think a duck has better chances at good-looking feet.
That silver Puma slip-on will look especially flattering.

Posted in: Memoirs, Rant