Yesterday’s insanely warm temperatures (hello, 71 degrees) had me wanting to shed the multiple layers that have been cocooning me against this winter’s nastiness.  Certainly, I wasn’t about to strip down to a tank and some shorts, though I did see some crazies out there attired as such.  I was about to swap out my Danskos for a pair of flip flops for the short walk to get the kids from school. Then I took off my socks and looked at my feet. 

Ugh.

I have some funky looking feet.  I know, I know, I said I was going to be nicer to myself, but truly, I’m just stating facts here.  The last time I painted my toenails, I only did so because we were going to a Christmas party and I was wearing peep-toe shoes.  Even then, I only painted the two toes you’d see through the peep hole.  Yeah, I’m that girl. 

I’m rough on my feet. I’m on them most of the day. I work out pretty vigorously either doing cardio training or pounding up and down the tennis court.  My feet don’t stink, but they do sweat. I’ll even ‘fess up to having a corn and what looks like the beginning of a bunion. It’s atrocious, but I’ve earned it with all the pointy toed shoes I’ve worn over the years.

Add to that, the genetic quirk in our family known as the Bennett Toe.  Left foot, second toe. Graciously passed down from my maternal grandmother, to my mother, to me, the Bennett toe, used to have me studiously avoiding open toed sandals during the warmer months. The toes just refuses to lie flat.  The nail is a speck of calcium that refuses to grow flat, but instead rises out of the nail bed like a cone. 

 It looks like a boiled turtle head wearing a party hat.

Anyway, no flip-flops for me yesterday. I wasn’t ready to turn people to stone by having them cast a wayward glance at my hooves.  

Last night while paging though pins on Pinterest, I kept seeing lots of tattooed feet.  Words, phrases, names, world maps. All inked on the tops, sides and insteps of feet.  

A friend of mine recently had her deceased grandmother’s name inked on her instep.  She had saved her grandmother’s signature and had it transferred onto her foot as a tat.  Very cool.  

I go back and forth about getting some more ink (yes, I said more).  I don’t think you’re ever too old, though DH would beg to differ.  Still, I’m at a point in my life where the places I may have put something when I was in college are not the places I would put something now.  

Morgan just looked over my shoulder as I was typing and remarked, “I’m never getting a tattoo because God gave me this skin and it’s beautiful just the way it is.”

Clearly, I’m doing something right, but just in case she changes her tune,  I am SO printing this out for future reference.