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.