Zombie toes, part two. Or, about my recent shoe fitting.

I have foot issues.  Feet issues.  Whatever.  It's both of them.  One just more than the other.

Anyway, here's a little background.

My feet are small.  Not, "awww... how cute, she wears a 6" small, but more "awww... all her shoes have sparkles and cartoon characters because she has to shop in the kid's department" small.  Now, that has a few benefits.  Kid's shoes are generally much cheaper than adult shoes.  Ok, it has ONE benefit.  Try shopping for cute hooker heels for date night in a size little girls 3.5.  It ain't easy, folks.  Sadly, it's possible, but it ain't easy.

Oh, and also, one foot is wider than the other one.  Like, by half a size or so.  Enough to matter.

I've stumbled - literally - through my adult life wearing sandals, Crocs, and too-big boots, and I've managed just fine.

Up until now.

Up until running.

Once I started running for real, it became a quest to find running shoes that actually fit.

I went through about six pairs of running shoes, feeling all the while like Goldilocks.  "This one's too tight."  "This one's too big."  "This one's a device of torture."  You know the drill.  Being a huge Nike fan, and since most Women's shoes start in a size 5.5 or 6, my choices were somewhat limited.  Ok, they were incredibly limited.  I finally settled in on a pair of Nike Pegasus, size 5 wide to accommodate my fat foot, and was happy with my choice.

Until I started putting in some real mileage in them.  Three miles, fine.  Five miles, ok.  Eight or nine miles at a time, and my toenails all started turning black.  And falling off.  And then the part underneath the falling off part would turn black again.  And get blisters.  And ooze.

Ug. Ly.

And just in time for sandal season!

So, I did what any semi-intelligent person would do.

I ignored it.

For a REALLY long time.  Like, until I only had two toenails left.

Finally, RJ intervened and insisted I go get fitted at a real running shoe store, by someone who had a clue... So, off we went.

We walked into the cute little store, ooohed and aaahed over the cute little shoes we saw for a minute, then were approached by an helpful and earnest looking young man.  "What can I help you with today?"

"My wife needs new running shoes." RJ isn't one to mess around.

"Ok, come on over here and have a seat and" - glancing down at my sandal-clad feet - "OH DEAR GOD!  I'll be right with you.  In a minute.  As soon as I do... something... in the back... for a minute.  Just a minute."

He quickly made his way over to a couple other employees and began to whisper frantically under his breath, all the while making large hand gestures and carefully avoiding looking in my direction.  There was a quick game of rock, paper, scissors, which he lost - Dumbass.  Everybody knows you NEVER pick paper - then he headed back toward us, trying not to stare at my feet.  He failed miserably.

It's like that thing when you see someone who is morbidly obese, or only has 2 limbs, or has a hole where his nose should be.  You KNOW you shouldn't stare, but you don't want to be obvious about NOT LOOKING, so in the end, you don't know where to look at all and you end up looking at his crotch or something, which is WAY more comfortable for everyone.

Yeah, it was kinda like that.

Just as he shored himself up and started to do his duty, a lady, clearly his supervisor, walked up and asked him to go wrap a knee, which I assume is code for "I don't think you can handle this; go in the back, eat a Snickers, drink some water, take some deep breaths, and get over it.  We all have nightmares.  This is yours."

Anyway, the lady stepped in and took over our transaction like a pro.  She glanced at my feet, dook a deep breath, and said "Looks like you need some new shoes.  What I see there is never good."

At this point, she began to measure, assess, test, pull, push and shove my feet around.  I ran on a treadmill for a few minutes, and was labeled an "overpronator," which always makes me think of big noses for some reason, but really means I run all knock-kneed, kinda like Forrest Gump.

Then she started bringing out the shoes.

First pair, too big.

Second pair, too big.

Third through fiftieth pairs,  too big.

Along the way, there were a few lame jokes about my wearing shoes that light up, etc.  Yeah, heard it all before, thanks.  Anyway, finally, I said "When I buy little girl's dress shoes, I usually get buy a 3.5."

She went to the back again, and came out with a pair of Brooks Universal Platform stability shoes, size 4 in little girl's.  They have purple daisies on them, because - Hello!  Little Girl's!

And they fit.

Assured that my life would change now that I had shoes that fit, I set out to run 13.1 miles the next day.

Wearing my new shoes, on the advice to the nice lady who seemed to know what the hell she was talking about.

Yeah, bad call.

At the half mile mark, they started to tingle a little bit.  By mile two, my left foot was throbbing.  By mile five, I was vomiting from the pain, and I have a pretty extreme tolerance for pain.  Just ask the nurse who threatened to tie me to my bed when I was walking around 4 hours after my last c-section.  By mile 8, I had taken it off and was walking barefoot.

After the race, I've done a handful of easy runs in these on the treadmill, and although the searing pain hasn't returned, my feet hurt in places that my feet have never hurt before.  Like the heel.  And the bottom.  And the top.  And the sides.

So it's back to square one for me as far as running shoes go.

Anybody out there know of some shoe elves who might come over in the middle of the night and make me a new pair of running shoes?  Or maybe I could just borrow a pair of theirs.  They would probably fit.


No comments:

Post a Comment

Pin It button on image hover