My new right foot: A fashion conundrum

I have graduated to shoes!

At my appointment last Wednesday, my foot guy gave me the all-clear to don the "loosest pair of shoes you have." I had just what the doctor ordered -- my well-worn Columbia dog-walking/snow-busting/dig-in-the-dirt/schlep-all-over-the-muddiest-parts-of-Manuel-Antonio-National-Park-in-Costa-Rica slip-on walking shoes. They're golden.

But herein lies the fashion conundrum. Because of their time-honored utility, the Columbias also are currently the ugliest shoes I have. And this does present some challenges when it comes to accessorization in the world of fashion.

There was something to be said for the surgical shoe. With its sleek lines, low profile and chameleon-like characteristics, you could possibly bust it out for almost any occasion.

It does goes well with jeans and a Keen walking shoe.

Throw a Keen sandal and a pair of clamdiggers into the mix, and you've got a nice summer vibe going.

Matched up with a kicky little patent leather Clark sandal, you could even carry off a skirt in the pinch. (I think I'd wear nylons, though. The combination of fading bruises and a lingering tinge of orange Betadine on my right foot is a little, shall we say, unusual right now.)

Alas, not so with the Columbias.

"The look" basically starts -- and stops -- with jeans. This about as good as it gets.

Because the wheels begin to come off with the clamdiggers.

And, frankly, there's absolutely no way you're going out the door in a skirt.

Indeed. It IS hard to be glamorous.

My new right foot: Dangling

This has been my view of the world since last Thursday afternoon, but today, today, I graduated to dangling.

Please, hold your applause.

What this means is I can now alternate elevating and icing my foot with dangling and swinging it. Ahh, life's little pleasures.

I do come away with a greater of appreciation of life winnowed down to one room, a bazillion pillows, good books and magazines, March Madness, a TV, a cell phone and the best gray dog ever.

It's lovely watching spring slowly track its way across the TV room walls, creating long shadows and random sunspots. And it's lovely having the time -- and excuse -- to just sit.

After his morning walk, Ben hopped up on the bed and settled in for the rest of the day, filling the room with quiet sighs and an occasional growl. Finally, he burrowed his head in the chenille throw I had tossed over my lap as if to say, "I'll stay here forever if you will."

I read a book cover to cover in just one day. (Haven't done that since college when, one Saturday, I was completely and totally paralyzed on my dorm room floor for 8 hours so, racing through "The Exorcist.") I watched a chick flick -- without apology. But I wasn't a complete lump. I did rise up out of bed and tool up and down the hall a few times each day -- just to say I did. And I did write thank-notes, to boot. See? I wasn't a COMPLETE lump.

A few friends dropped by. Others texted and called on the phone. The WSP (aka, Wonderfully Patient Spouse) cruised in and out with ice packs and scratch tickets, hunkering down with me in the afternoon to watch our basketball brackets continue their inevitable march toward irrelevance as one upset piled on after another.

Would I want to be confined to bed... or to one room... the rest of my life? The answer, of course, is no. But do I appreciate taking a step back now and then. And I will savor the temporary solitude and simplicty that come with a few weeks' lost mobility.

And all thanks, if you will, to the humble bunion.

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.