My new right foot

The Curse of the Bailey Feet has caught up with me. It was inevitable. Despite passing on generally rock-star genes along any number of chromosomal fronts, the ladies on my mom's side of the family historically have had terrible feet -- bunions, hammertoes, corns, calluses, the works.

And, alas, most of the time you can't beat genetics: Hence, I have terrible feet, too.

To illustrate: A couple of years ago, my co-workers and I created a Christmas banner of our footprints (red and green paint, of course!). I know. Don't ask. You kind of had to be there. And work with the people I do.

After I made my contribution, we all agreed it looked like a Hobbit had scampered across the butcher paper. (Or Spawn of the Devil if you prefer something a little more sinister. There was a decidedly "cloven hoof" look to the prints depending on how you looked at them.)

Add a dash of psoriasis,and to put it bluntly, you're looking at some pretty skanky dogs. Which is why, a couple of weeks ago, when the most comfortable pair of shoes I've ever owned started to feel like Cinderella's glass slipper. . . ONLY ON THE UGLY STEPSISTER'S FOOT. . . I knew it was time to face the music and see a podiatrist.

I credit Dr. T and his staff for not running out of the exam room screaming like school girls when I peeled off my socks. I guess it's all part of being a podiatric professional. And while the good doctor poked, prodded, bent and flexed my foot and toes, I toddled off to LaLaLand, thinking maybe it would be okay after all. Sadly, it was short visit -- somewhere between the words "severe" and "joint is starting to dislocate," I knew the jig was up. If I wanted to continue walking upright like my human brothers and sisters, a surgical intervention was in my future.

Depending on who you talk to, bunion surgery can be notoriously painful -- or a "walk" (but not really) in the park. I'm not too worried about that. I come from sturdy peasant stock (well, aside from crappy feet). I heal fast and have a high tolerance for pain. I say, Bring.It.On.

Pain is transient. But the recovery time? Not so much. Can you say five weeks before you can place any weight on the surgical foot? Two weeks on crutches? No driving? No dog walking? No gardening? No golfing? For AT LEAST five weeks? Arrrrghhh.

I'm already starting a "bucket list" of things I want to do before my tootsies go under the knife.

But, given the alternative -- I'll take it. It beats being called Igor.