Something you may or may not know about me. I hate feet. Maybe because I don’t think mine are the cutest, with my bunions and calluses. By the time my mom was my age she already had bunion surgery. Mine have definitely gotten worse over the years but I am in slight denial and pretend they are fine. They don’t hurt yet so I until then…well they are fine…they just don’t look too pretty. As I write I am knocking on a piece of wood for that one. Ugh and those disgustos that have foot sex fetishes…ewww… Look, everyone is allowed to have their own “thing” but seriously pick a different part of the body other than that which stampedes the cement ground I walked home from work on today. The only good thing that comes to mind when I hear the word feet is pedicure. I do love a pampering pedicure. But who doesn’t?
I love stilettos, pumps and all other girly shoes that are bad for your feet. I wear them all the time and prefer to live by the mantra “beauty is pain” when it comes to heels. I am a woman and therefore, feel entitled to think that way. But after a long day of standing upright 4 inches with an arched foot taller than my best day in flats, I come home and feel relieved to put on my slippers (which by the way only occurs after I eloquently place my heels back in their rightful space in the closet – this tidbit will make sense after you read the post in full). Well this got me thinking. How do surgeons stand in surgeries for 10 hours without tired feet? Mr. Dr. never complains about his feet being sore. I don’t get it. How do they run around the hospital for 24 hours without hurtin’ tootsies?
So then I considered the shoe selection for surgeons. It seems the most popular in our neck of the Manhattan woods are either crocks or clogs. He says his clogs are perfect for running around the hospital and standing in long surgeries. Then again, they are probably too damn tired to even notice what’s on their feet. I’d like to believe if Christian Louboutin made clogs they would probably be uncomfortable and probably cost a small fortune. I wonder, though, if the lady doctors and nurses would buy them anyway. After all, they are women. And we women love shoes.
True and terrible story:
I got home from work one day and a pair of his old sneakers (that I hadn’t seen in months) were sitting out IN OUR TINY APARTMENT next to the couch. I looked down and saw a few speckles of red on them. And it wasn’t the same red as the sole or the Nike swoosh. No it was a smeared, deeper red on the top. He wouldn’t I thought to myself. Oh but he did. Smeared b-l-o-o-d. Not a spilled glass of Cabernet, not a sharpie explosion and not a fight with my bottle of nail polish. Nope, just blood
dabbled drenched, infectious sneakers sitting effortlessly next to my crisp, clean light-colored sofa where I spend my calming downtime and where.I.live.
Me: Babe, where did these old sneakers come from?
Him: The car.
Me: Um, is that blood on them?
Him: Oh yeah, when I didn’t have my clogs I had to use these because they were the only old pair of shoes I had lying around that I wanted to use in the OR.
Did they eventually get moved? Yes. But what the hell made him think that his placement of shoes was A)appropriate and B)normal? Am I crazy? Thinking back to it I must say if it was sans the blood on top I would not have gotten so disgusted. But the bottom line is there was blood, from an OR nonetheless, and it was sitting in my pretty living room. I have learned to bite my tongue so many times I can’t even count. So I made sure to express my disgust in a heartfelt, loving way that might get through to him because newflash -> blood drenched/dabbed/speckled/dropped/I-don’t-care-how-much-is-on-it-but-it-is-there sneakers need to stay out of my living space. This reminds me of an Emma saga of “You Know You’re a Surgeon’s Wife When…”
I came to the conclusion that while what he did was pretty sick and unsanitary, there are bigger fish to fry so I’m over it. He knows I was not thrilled and that’s what matters. I think I had a soft spot because we don’t have a garage or mud room to displace something like that. We don’t even have a yard where we can sit them (though the balcony would have been a better option). But hey, he was probably seeing double when he put them there after his long shift. I’m going with that because he knows Mrs. Dr. would not approve if he was thinking in his level-headed state. Note: for my future visitors, I have disinfected the area and while I am not certain where the old sneaks currently reside, they are not next to the couch.
Are clogs, crocks and old sneakers the surgery way as far as feet selection for anyone else in the surgical field? Would love to know…and hear if any of you have shared in a similar true and terrible story like mine.