Warning:
this story involves feet and foot related paraphernalia.
I hate feet. Or rather, I strongly
dislike them. I reserve the word hate for more serious matters such as bad
drivers, mannequins, ski lifts, and something I like to call “improper line
etiquette” (which involves people who don’t understand what lines are and how
to wait in them). My dislike of feet may stem from their inherent grossness or
from my personally horrendous foot history; nonetheless, it survives in some
deep, dark recess of my brain comparable to the fungus monster lurking under
toenails in those awful Lamisil commercials.
I come from what I can only assume
is a long line of Thompsons with weird, misshapen feet. I base this solely off
the fact that my father and brother both have weird feet. This is another gift
from the Thompson genetic pool in addition to my giant freak head that doesn’t
fit into women’s hats. That episode of Seinfeld where Elaine becomes convinced
her head is too big really hit home for me.
