If The Shoe Fits - Wear It!

For most of my life I wondered why anyone in their right mind would become a podiatrist. How busy could a doctor be that deals with nothing but feet?  Surely these had to be the people with the lowest grades in med school.  Then I got a little something called Plantar Fascitis. The bottom of my feet felt like someone was stabbing them with a steak knife. Every step hurt more than watching an Alabama basketball team shoot free throws.  The pain was so acute that I made an appointment with a podiatrist and got injections  in my arches. This affliction gave me an absolute respect for the good doctors of the feet.  Angels of mercy they surely are.  Podiatry is a divine calling.  

Along with my shots,  I had been referred to someone to build custom orthotics for my shoes. This would correct the gait that initially caused my problem. In addition, the cost of the inserts would lighten my wallet considerably, thus adjusting the angle of my hip, giving me even more relief.  So, a week after an initial appointment,  I left the foot clinic with my own custom made orthotics.   I was also given the model of a sneaker that works best with the insert - then forced at gunpoint to sign a notarized oath in blood agreeing to purchase this specific model of shoe before using my orthotics.  There’s another couple of hundred of bucks.  But it’s all worth it to make this pain go away. 

And it did go away - finally.  It was nice to get up in the morning and put my feet on the floor without feeling like a Shaman walking on a bed of nails.  Life was truly better. 

Then about 4 months ago I began having minor foot pain again.  How can this be?  I wore my orthotics regularly.  I had regularly changed out my sneakers - in fact, I just got a new pair my wife had ordered for me as a Christmas present.   No matter. I knew it was time to handle this before it escalated into something worse. I called the foot clinic. They  explained  that orthotics can wear out just like sneakers.  That was likely the cause of my problem.  All I needed to do was come in and have them reworked.  I quickly made an appointment.     

Once in his office, the insert maker took the orthotics out of my shoes, gave them a close inspection, and nodded optimistically.  Then he left the exam room.  Yes!  Relief was less than 30 minutes away. 

Upon his return, he picked up one of my shoes and began to replace the inserts.  I think I felt my feet smiling. But he was experiencing some difficulty getting them to fit properly.  Finally, after a few minutes he looked up and said, “Are these the same shoes you had on when we initially fit you?”

I looked at him quizzically.  “No.  In fact, I just replaced them at Christmas with a pair my wife ordered for me.”

He furrowed his brow and continued fiddling with the shoe.  Finally he pulled the tongue back and examined it closely.  Then he looked at me, smiled, and said flatly, “These are women’s shoes.  That’s why they don’t fit.”  

I looked at him in disbelief saying, “No way.” 

He nodded and then showed me the numbers printed on the shoe. It clearly said  W-11. “See that?”, he said.  “This is a woman’s size 11 shoe.  No wonder your feet have been hurting.”

“I knew they fit kind of tight when I put the inserts in, but I thought it was because my feet were swollen.  So I’ve just been tying them loosely,” I said weakly. 

He smiled and nodded, saying, “I understand.  You’d be surprised at the things I see here.”

Yeah. Things like an idiot who’s been wearing women’s shoes to the gym.  Suddenly I had a disturbing thought.  “Does this make me a cross dresser?”  

 

He advised to get new, gender correct shoes, and wear them for a month before we got together for a recheck. I’m sure the doctor was smirking as I left his office. 

I could hardly wait to get in my car to call my my wife. She picked up on the first ring and said, “Hey.  Did they find out what your problem was?”

“Oh yeah.”  I tried to act unfazed.  I was setting her up for the sucker punch.  After a short pause I took the swing, saying, “It was a minor issue they managed to uncover.  Seems I’ve been wearing WOMEN’S NEW BALANCE SHOES for the last 3-4 months.”  

She blocked the jab as skillfully as Muhammad Ali picking off a left hook from Joe Frazier.  There was no hesitation.  She immediately said, “Oh.  We must have ordered the wrong ones.”  

I was quick to reply.  “We?  What do you mean we?”  This reminded me of an old joke.  When surrounded by hostile Indians, the Lone Ranger said, “Tonto, we’re in big trouble now.”   Tonto replied, “What do you mean we, paleface?” 

Then she followed up with a classic counterpunch.  “I can’t believe you didn’t check them.”  The ol’ flip it back on me routine.  

Not this time.  I said, “I thought that you were capable of ordering me a pair of shoes on line.  I mean, we’ve only been purchasing  this same  style for the past 8 years.  And I did check them. The box said 11W.  I thought W meant Wide - not Women’s!”

She knew I was right.  After a short pause she said, “Well, I do wear a size 11 shoe.  I must I’ve got confused.  Do you want me to order you another pair?”

“Do you think you can?”,  I said. “I don’t want to end up with a pair of high heels.”

She replied, “New Balance doesn’t make high heeled shoes. But if they did, you would look fabulous in them.” I’m still trying to figure out if that was  a compliment or sarcasm.  

And while she may still order my shoes, I’m sure not going to let her order my underwear.  

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#podiatry

#myfeethurt

#NewBalance

#checkyourshoesize