I have been cursed with malfunctioning feet. I detest their innate ineptness to follow what the rest of my legs are doing. They just can’t seem to keep up. Furthermore, I assume that my sore behind is more disappointed in their lack of agility. My feet have defined the story of my life. They have determined each path I take. I have to admit, without my slow toes, my life would be much less interesting.
I can remember in ballet class as a five and six-year-old, being the “slow one” of the class. I was simply offbeat. Correction: my feet were offbeat. I had everything else in order, my arm movements, my spins, my twirls—it was just the feet that didn’t match up quite right… which probably made it worse. It was because of these same feet that my dance career came to a halt. Once during practice, as I rose to perform a potentially graceful arabesque, one foot wanted to go up with the other, causing me to fall perfectly on my left ankle, issuing a sprain and a refusal from my teacher to continue teaching me pointe lessons. And that was that.
During my middle school years—you know, during those times when you think the whole world is always looking at you, because you are all that—I was quickly humbled by a lesson taught by my own feet. I had just picked up my lunch tray and I was headed towards my lunch table. And of course, I thought everybody was watching. So I quickly shuffled towards my destination as a result of my self-consciousness. My feet moved too fast for me to notice the convenient yellow “wet floor” sign on the ground. The next thing I know, I am on the floor with a bruised bottom. It was like a movie scene; I can still replay it in my head: In slow motion my feet slip under me. Balance is escaping me as I flail my arms in a backwards circular motion, forgetting that those arms were once uplifting a tray full of messy food. With a shocked face, my mouth twisted and ajar, and brows furrowed, I land on the floor with ketchup and gravy and mashed potatoes flung all over my face and clothes. I look up and every face in the room is exploding with deriding hysteria. The boisterous clamor of laughter is but a whisper compared to my panicked thoughts of embarrassment and shame. I decide to fight the tears back. Instead, I get up and “laugh it off”.
My feet have always been at my side to guide me in learning life lessons. After the lunchroom incident, falls seemed to be less embarrassing. The rest of my middle school days were followed with plenty more trips of ever-improving humility: in P.E. class, in the hallway, in front of my church congregation when I tripped and spilled the offering plate in front of the altar… you know, the usual.
Once, at school Mass, We were filing out of the chorus pews in order to go down to where everyone was receiving the Eucharist. I don’t really know how it happened, but my feet apparently skipped a step going down, but left my head suspended at the same height, just high enough for me to knock my head forcefully on the back of a piece of wood that juts out to display the hymn numbers. I don’t really know what that experience taught me exactly, but it sure did wake up some students who otherwise would have not paid attention for the rest of the service. Maybe this is how God is using me.
You know, through all the hard times I’ve had with these awkward feet, I really don’t give them enough credit. I guess there havebeen good things that have occurred because of my cinder blocks that attach to my ankles... like the fact that a man, who would not otherwise be paid, is training me for goalkeeping, because my footwork is like that of a pregnant elephant. Also, I would have never gotten to meet cutie “Charles” in the library if I hadn’t accidentally run into him, causing him to spill his coffee. Maybe, because of my feet, we’ll meet one day and get married, because he’ll remember me as the charming, approachable, klutz who ruined his study session, but remained as a replay in his mind because he knew that I was the love of his life.
So, maybe my feet are almost a blessing rather than a curse. Because I quit dance, I started up French lessons. And I’ve probably gotten way further with that course than dancing anyway. Because of that trip in the lunchroom, I have a few friends that really love to recount the tale to anyone who hasn’t heard the story of my famous fall. I’ve decided, that because of my feet, in the end, I’ll be married to Charles and live in France with friends who think I’m extremely popular and approachable because of my willingness to “laugh at life”. I’ll be the subject of embarrassing stories, keeping in mind the countless amount of people I have helped through struggle, such as the poor goalie trainer or the monks and nuns who used to be sleeping kids in church.
Thanks, feet.
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