If the shoe fits...

I have weird feet. Like, really odd and funny feet. You know those Bear Claw pastries? That's kind of what my feet look like. They are wide with short, stubby little toes. Growing up, my family used to tease me about my feet. I remember on several occasions having the entire family, my parents included, just sit and laugh while staring at my feet. They really are that amusing. Rather than go to therapy to uncover what kind of emotional scars I will carry with me to the grave because of the merciless foot mocking of my youth, how about I just write a blog post about them and then move on? Sounds like a plan.

In college, I had to see a podiatrist about some issues I was having with my feet. When he first looked at them, he snickered. I'm not kidding. A man who examines feet for a living laughed at mine. When he started to remark on the unusual webbing between my second and third toes, I nearly lost it. And so, six weeks before my wedding, I had a minor surgical procedure on both feet. Have you ever had a shot in the bottom of your foot? If not, I can tell you that it is just about the most painful experience I've ever endured. I would rather get an epidural in my spine than another shot in my foot.

I am no Imelda Marcos. Finding shoes that fit comfortably is a real chore which means that I own very few pairs of shoes, and when one pair wears out, I mourn the loss of it. Summer is my least favorite season because sandals are my nemesis. Any shoe that is designed to show off your foot is not a shoe for me. My goal is always to find a sandal that covers the greatest possible area of my foot while still passing as a sandal.

So, you know if you've read my previous posts that I reacquainted myself with my treadmill about a year ago. Turns out that when you exercise regularly, you need shoes that will hold up well. Naturally, I pulled out a pair of old shoes that my mother had worn for her daily walks before giving them to me. She is also blessed with wide feet, you see. Thus, I started my daily exercise routine in a pair of hand-me-down, already worn out shoes. After several months, those shoes were hurting my feet and so I replaced them with a second pair of my mom's cast-offs. Then, about a month ago, I jumped off the treadmill after a workout to discover that I had blood on my sock. Yup, my crappy, ill-fitting, hand-me-down shoes had abused my feet so badly that they were actually bleeding. When Scott saw the pathetic state of my blistered, callused, bloody feet, he begged me -- begged me -- to go buy myself some decent exercise shoes. As much as I hate shoe shopping, after a year of exercising in cruddy shoes, I had to admit that Scott was right (it happens so rarely) and it was time to get some real shoes.

It was with no small amount of trepidation that I entered a shoe store designed for runners/exercisers. I couldn't help feeling like a fraud, despite the friendly salesperson who was eager to help. He asked me a bunch of questions about my exercise regimen, and I slowly began to feel like maybe I belonged there in that store.

Eager-to-please salesguy: "How many miles do you log each week?"

Me: "Hmmm. Well, I hit the treadmill about 4-5 times a week and do about 5 miles each time, so..."

Eager-to-please salesguy: "Alright, so about 20-25 miles a week."

Me: (thinking) Huh. I never thought about that before. Go me!

He explained their three-step system for determining what shoe will fit you best. First, he asked me to remove my sandals so he could measure my feet. Ugh. I suppose I could have predicted that I would have to expose my feet, but it didn't make it any easier when the time came to actually do it. Eager-to-please sales guy managed to maintain his composure after my shoes came off. I placed each foot into a measuring device that he had to tweak and adjust in order to accommodate my mammoth bear claws. At one point he touched my foot and it took all I had not to shout, "Ewww. Don't touch! Don't Touch!"

Eager-to-please salesguy: "What shoe size do you normally wear?"

Me: "7 1/2"

Eager-to-please salesguy: "Yeah, your feet measure at 6 1/2"

Me: "Hmmm. That explains a lot."

Basically, I'd spent the last year exercising in old, worn-out, too-big shoes. Nice. Step two of the three-step shoe fitting process required me to stand on a scanner for a full foot scan, the results of which appeared on a giant monitor in the middle of the store. How fortunate that I was able to examine the thermal patterns and pressure points of my feet in full-color and in plain view of everyone in the store! The salesguy was telling me all about what each shade of color represented, but all I could think was Get my feet off the screen! Get my feet off the screen! I should mention that I brought socks with me for when it was time to try on shoes, and after each step I would ask the salesguy if it was time for me to put on my socks -- so desperate was I to cover my feet. Finally he just had to reply with "No, I'm afraid you're going to have to stay barefoot a little longer." Because there was still one more step... and it was my worst nightmare, but it was no dream.

Step 3: Run, barefoot, on a treadmill while being recorded by a video camera so it can be watched in slow-motion on a giant monitor.

And so I ran, on a treadmill, in bare feet, while being recorded so that we could later watch it on a giant screen in slow-motion and evaluate my foot weaknesses. What happened next is kind-of a blur. I remember the salesguy using big fancy foot words like "pronation" but to be honest, I didn't hear most of what he was saying about arch support, etc. because I was completely transfixed and mortified by the giant image being broadcast across the store of my feet slowly thump thump thumping along on the treadmill.

Eager-to-please salesguy: "It's time to start trying on some shoes."

Me: (relieved) "Great! I'll just put on the socks I brought."

Eager-to-please salesguy: "Actually, I noticed that you have cotton socks. We don't allow cotton socks in our store."

Me: (dumbfounded and slightly amused) "You don't allow cotton socks in your store?"

Eager-to-please salesguy: "Nope, I'm afraid not. You can wear some of our specially designed moisture wicking running socks to try on our shoes."

Me: "Um, okay."

I overcame the sense of shame that had befallen me for bringing unwelcome cotton socks into the store because I was too curious and had to know why they are shunned. Apparently, according to eager-to-please salesguy, cotton socks are pretty much the worst kind of sock you can wear for exercise. So, not only had I been running in old, worn out, too big shoes, but I'd been wearing the wrong kind of socks to boot!

Anyway, I started to try on shoes (they had wide sizes -- yay!) and discovered something remarkable: if they are the right size and well designed, running shoes can actually feel really good on your feet. Go figure! I tried on several pairs, hopped around in them, declined an offer to jump back on the treadmill to try them out, and in no time at all, found a pair that fit like a glove. $150 later, I left the store with a spiffy pair of brand-new shoes, arch-supporting insoles, and several pairs of moisture wicking super fancy socks!

I was really excited to jump on the treadmill that evening and try them out. The store has a 90-day return-for-any-reason policy, so I was determined to see if these shoes were really that much better than what I'd been using... and they totally are! Holy cow! Now, when I exercise, it feels great! My feet don't ache, my legs don't hurt, I feel like I'm just bouncing along. It's awesome! I'm not generally a proponent of idolatry, but I worship these shoes. Aren't they pretty?

So, to all of you who are currently exercising in a pair of your mom's old sneakers (I can't be the only one, can I? Can I?) may I recommend that you follow my ground-breaking example and invest in a pair of new shoes that fit well? You won't be sorry. And your feet will no longer bleed. What more reason do you need, really?

p.s. One benefit of writing this post is that I'll soon be able to tell who all of my blog lurkers are. You'll reveal yourself when, next we meet, you are stifling giggles or recoiling in horror as you stare at my feet.