We all have our secrets.
We all have those things that we do in private when no one is around that there is no way in hell we would ever tell anyone what we just did. This is human nature. They may be gross, they may be vain, they may be even a little dangerous, but we can’t help but to do them. It’s like picking you nose when you are alone and then being a little proud of what you brought out. It’s disgusting and not a conversation that you would have with anyone, anywhere, at anytime. Unless you write a blog.
But someone always finds out what your little secret is and Dear God you hope they just keep on walking and ignore it. Please do not ever bring it up and save me from my disgusting weirdo self.
I’ve written a lot of stuff on here about other people, some good, some bad. I have painted myself in usually the lovable loser role or the hero while ignoring some of the very things that make me a weirdo. Well, I’m going to come clean on one today. Mainly, because later this week I’m going to write about my mother in law so I need to show that I ripped on myself first.
I have fat feet. I am obsessed with it. I have been this way since about 10. I have no idea why. I have deleted that sentence about 10 times all ready because of the embarrassment.
Now a lot of people don’t like their feet, so no big revelation right? It’s a little different with me. I love my feet. They are troll/hobbit feet and I am very proud of them. It just looks like I’m standing on a couple of pancakes, that’s all. What makes this truly odd is that I’m a dude. In fact, I’m a pretty manly dude. I crop my hair short, have a goatee and this weekend I even lifted a table over my head for the sure joy of it. I do not usually give a rat’s ass what I wear. My wife has picked out all my clothes for the last 10 years so if she says it looks good, then I’m good. But it’s my feet man, I just can’t get over it.
I had a report due when I was 10. I was good to go, I was going to give the best damn report that Ms. Quick had ever seen. I was handsome with a spike haircut that drove the young ladies crazy. I was going to get an A on this thing, no problem. Everything was going good until I realized that we were going to videotape the report. This one little act changed my life forever.
It was at that moment, while sitting in my radical Jams that I decided that man, I have fat feet. Look at how wide those bastards are. It’s like whale feet man. If I step on someone, I’m going to squash them. I should go into the grape crushing business, because I would be an allstar.
I have no idea why I thought this or what about a video taping it made the thought come about. It’s not public speaking. Hell, I’m a damn good public speaker and don’t usually get nervous at all. In fact, all day today I have been speaking in front of a group as part of my job, so that wasn’t it.
In order to take the soon to be gawking stares off of my gargantuan feet, I pulled up my socks to my knees. I gave my report, on the Texas Rangers by the way, with knee high white socks, Jams, and fat feet. It classifies as one of the top 10 embarrassing moments in my life. Number 1 being that I farted in front of a pretty girl in class when I bent over to get a book when I was 13. It was so loud that the whole class heard it and stopped what they were doing. It was so bad that I froze. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I just did nothing. I did not move for a good hour. I prayed to god that people would just forget that I existed.
But unlike that moment, I can just move on and never talk to those people ever again. My feet are with me always, like a reminder that it is possible that I am some genetic freak.
In college I had to take 3 semesters of dance class. I am a 230 pound uncoordinated bit of sexiness, so this was not good. As it was college, were all a little hippie and very much into sandals and flip flops. Let me give you a piece of advice now: Do not where sandals to do the Polka in. It’s a very bad idea.
Feel free to ask my partner, who had her big toenail ripped off by my humongous feet. It was during the 3 count in dance and my foot ripped that bastard right off. She was so hot to. Those things bleed like a bastard. She went down hard and fast, and not in a good way. I panic when this happened. I picked her up like I was superman and she was Lois Lane. I have no idea where I was going to take her but anything just to get her to calm down. She was bleeding all over me and since I had to take her farther than I thought, I had the meat sweats going to. This is just one example of how my fat feet have tried to ruin me. She would Polka no more and it was my fault.
She eventually forgave me and ripped me for being such a big uncoordinated lug. Which was fine by me as long as she didn’t know about my secret of my fat feet. Sure, whatever you say baby, I’m a lug. Let me give you a cute smile so you’ll forgive me.
However, like I said at the beginning, all secrets get out.
My wife took me shoe shopping. For me, normally this is the equivalent having an ice pick jammed in my eye. It ranks right up there with purse shopping and having a mobster knee cap me. It is mind numbing and I hate it. I will intently jam a steak knife into my thigh just so I can get the medical discharge. I have no shame.
But my wife insisted that I needed new shoes so I insisted that I go with her. This set her off as she was not used to me actually volunteering to go. She had no idea about how I felt about my feet.
We tried on three pairs. The last pair she looked at me and could see that I was miserable. She was having a great time because Hossmom loves her some shoe shopping. It’s like crack in a box. She asked me what was wrong with this pair, after having me walk that gimp walk with one shoe down the aisle. It was like being a kid again.
“These shoes make my feet look fat” I said. And I waited for it.
There it was. The laughter. She thought I was joking. I had been writing these stories for her for a while, so she thought I was just doing a bit. It took me a moment to convince her that the shoes made my feet look fat and where not slimming enough in the middle. That’s the key for me, my shoes need to have that hour glass shape like I am a hot blonde.
My secret was out and I was just sure as shit that everyone in the store had heard what I had just said. Dear God do not let me freeze again. I swear to god that I will rip out every toenail here if anyone so much as makes a comment.
After her laughter died down a little bit she found me a pair of shoes that fit just fine. I kept those same shoes for about 4 years, refusing to go back. Hell, the shoes I’m currently wearing are a good 3 years old for the same reason. Picking out shoes for me is like picking which crewman has to go underwater to release the valve before we all die, knowing that he will never make it back. It takes that kind of bravery.
Everyday with my daughter, I say the same prayer. Please don’t let her have fat feet. Please. If she does, then I guess I have to teach her the Polka Defense.