* Disclaimer: This post contains grotesque descriptions of festy feral feet. Read at your own peril. Do not read while eating.
It’s time to share my foot shame. (Why, Zoe, why? Stop now, it’s not too late…)
When soft, sensual tootsies were being handed out, I was waaaaay back in the queue, hanging out with the horses, bison, rhinos and my other hoofed comrades.
I mean, front on, okay, they’re not too bad, especially if you’re not averse to some delicate toe-hair action. But cop a load of those babies from side on/behind/underneath and whoa mama. As in, pedicurists recoil in horror and immediately bring out their hospital grade implements. As in, you could go canyoning in the bottomless fissures adorning my heels. As in, diamonds could be cut on the hard skin that is oh-so-unfortunately exposed in pretty sandals I have no place to be wearing. As in, my two-year-old daughter once prodded a heel gingerly and sympathetically said ‘ouch’. As in, my feet snag on the embroidery of my quilt so frequently that it almost makes me weep a little. As in, foot fetishists would only need five minutes in my company to be instantly cured.
I’ve tried everything in my quest for smooth soles. (Heck, I would sell my soul for smooth soles!) I’ve tried pumice stones, foot scrubs, heel balms, pedi-paddles, ped-eggs – although I think mine is a cheap imitation and the lid keeps coming off and showering me with my own finely-grated dead skin. (I TOLD you not to read this while eating!) Once, an ex-boyfriend even took to my heels with an electric sander. (No wonder he’s an ex, if the romance hadn’t already been dead I’m pretty sure that ground away any last lingering vestiges…)
I’m sure if I used a combination of all these methods twice daily, I would probably see some improvements, but with two time-munching munchkins to take care of, sometimes just finding the time to shower is a challenge, let alone finding 40 minutes to set aside for hoof maintenance.
My nearest and dearest are of course aware of this physical failing, which is why foot creams often feature highly as gifts. For my last birthday my mum bought me something called ‘Milky Foot’, a product that uses active ingredients to ‘effortlessly exfoliate’ your feet. (With further reading, I realised this translated to ‘your feet will shed several layers of skin over the next few weeks’.) Undaunted (well, slightly daunted), I popped on the gel-filled booties for the required hour, excited by the little tingle my feet were feeling. Perhaps something was happening.
And happen it did. A few days later, I looked down to see my feet had started to resemble the outside of a lamington. Only less appetitising. As the days progressed, the lamington started to turn into filo pastry. For the next week, I needed to walk around with my own dustpan and broom so as not to leave a Hansel and Gretel-esque trail of heel crumbs in my wake. (Please tell me you’re not still eating?!)
Finally, as the shedding subsided and the dust had settled, my feet were revealed… to look pretty much how they had before. Milky Foot? Well, maybe if said milk had been left on the counter for three months. Seems even Milky Foot hadn’t met my kind before.
Any other foot freaks out there? Any wonder cures to share? Or just fellow tales of woe?