My feet are ugly now. They used to be so pretty and so delicate—small and well taken care of. I indulged in pedicures twice a month. The ladies at the nail salon in Addison, TX knew my face, and my size 5 ½ feet. They knew I liked to bring my own nail polish—small bottles of OPI in varying shades of black and red—and for my 25th birthday, I brought gold, a color I’d never worn before. It was summer and I wanted to be golden all over. My toes were lacquered gold one year and one month ago.
Now, my feet are dry, covered in blisters and calluses, and the red, Essie polish is chipping. The nails are uncomfortably long and push up against my running shoes. One nail has fallen off, choosing to defect instead of hang around for abuse and neglect. Its replacement is growing in green and bumpy. It looks more like a wart than a nail. There is a small patch of black hair on each of my big toes. The hairs are coarse and have a tendency to stick straight up in a defiant stance, like they’re daring me to shave them off. Sometimes I accept and mow the hairs down with my razor. Now, more often than not, the insurgent strands grow long and strong under my ignorant and lax rule.
I blame New York for my feet’s disgraceful state. The metropolis was fourth in a poll which ranked the top walkable cities—and I believe it. Walking the miles and miles and miles of sidewalks have maimed and marred what was once a source of confidence for me, and have reduced them to a source of insecurity. I’ve started covering them in socks and sneakers to shield them from disapproving eyes. Summer is agony. Espadrilles, peep toes, and flip-flops taunt me constantly. The season’s airy footwear reminds me of the glory days when my feet were sun-bathing appropriate. Little about them now is glorious or appropriate, but it’s simply too hot to hide the poor, unsightly darlings. Too much heat induces sweat and sweat causes odor, so I wear sandals and risk public ridicule because it’s much easier to avert one’s eyes than to escape rank odor. Even baby powder can’t mask the pervasive stench of feet—something that smells like rotting garbage soaked in vinegar.
The city is too expensive and I’ve no allowance for pedicures. I’d rather eat or buy a cocktail than treat my feet. If I do get a pedicure, I make the hour-long trek to Astoria where I can get a mani-pedi for $20—and they shave off the calluses. Tomorrow, to celebrate my one-year anniversary of living in the Big Apple, I’m going to take the yellow line to Queens. I’m going to visit my nail salon and pick out a bottle of red, Essie nail polish. Then, I’m going to relax in the massage chair and let the nice Mexican lady shave, massage, and polish because I’m going back to Texas in ten days and I can’t let my home state know that New York City has gotten to me—or my feet.
