Saturday, June 6, 2009
one foot, two foot, I got a new foot!
One day I woke up to find I had grown a foot overnight. Two of my feet were gargantuan and the third dangled uselessly from a flabby calf. A barrage of thoughts flooded my mind. What mystery was afoot? Did my feet make me look fat? Where could I score an extra shoe? Do three feet make a yard? Would I be charged extra for pedicures now?
Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot, I lay abed and pondered my situation. How would I handle life as a tri-pod? How would I know if I really was putting my best foot forward? Would my two huge, puffy, outside feet actually explode?
I wanted to put my foot down and take action, but realized that I would trip over my own feet if I tried to take a stand.
Like a pregnant woman with border-line toxemia whose photo-happy mother had shoved her aging foot in between my own swollen extremities, I labored to rid myself of the image of being a three-foot woman for the rest of my life.
I needed a nap, so I obliged myself.
Fortunately, when I awoke, I was no longer a fifteen-toed freak of nature. If it wasn’t for the highly-realistic photographic evidence, I would think I made the whole thing up.