Nothing Glamorous About This

I have to have foot surgery. I was feeling ok about this until I talked to a coworker who recently had foot surgery himself, and his comments included that his doctor had said he was lucky he wasn't having the kind of surgery I am about to have, because it was worse. As it was, I started to feel faint when the doctor explained the procedure to me. "Can you stop?" I desperately asked in the middle of his pointing out wall diagrams of the foot, "I feel faint." After he reclined me into the exam chair and I was nearly horizontal with the comforting rush of blood back to my head, I was temporarily better.

I'm really struggling to portray my malady with any dash of romance or adventure. When I told another coworker he asked, "Oh, sports injury?" "No," I replied, and inhaled cautiously before blurting it out, "bunion."

Would you find it romantic and very old-world if I told you that it's colloquially called "a tailor's bunion"? In centuries past, tailors sat crossed-legged on the floor and therefore had constant pressure on the outside of their foot. My podiatrist kind of pooh-poohed this expression. I wanted to tell him that people probably still say that because it's the only embellishment that can make the word 'bunion' bearable.

Going to the podiatrist's office, after my self-diagnosis from Dr. Google, my greatest fear was that the doctor would tell me that it was my fancy shoes*. And that I should never ever, ever, wear high heels again. I'd be doomed to flats for the rest of my life. (And in this scenario - which I did get a little carried away with imagining - I sighed to myself and thought, 'thank goodness I've already had my wedding in shoes of my choosing.')

I was quickly reassured -- delighted -- when I sat in the waiting room and looked around to see the artwork on the walls. Artistic sketches of various high heel shoes. It got even better when I discerned that the doctor himself is gay. (Raising the possibility that on weekends he might even indulge in wearing heels himself.) At the very least a man wearing a pink shirt could not deny a girl her own fashion choices.

I go for surgery the middle of next month. I expect that I'll spend a weekend on the couch with limited mobility. I am preparing Tivo to entertain me by setting up a wishlist for Katherine Hepburn films. She seems like she might have the right amount of spunk to foster my recovery.

A first question for the doctor will be, "when can I wear real shoes again?" And by real shoes, I do mean heels. For two weeks immediately after I will be stuck with a boot on my foot. Maybe I can bedazzle it or give myself a punchy pedicure to entertain the questioning eyes that will inevitably drift down my leg to wonder what I did to my foot:
Skiing injury in the Alps with the Royals?
Lion bite from safari with Angelina and Brad?
Dancing misstep from my moonlighting as a back-up dancer for Justin Timberlake?

*Bunions are often hereditary, and after remembering my mom's feet, I think this is my case. Although I might also remember Mom saying something about wearing shoes that "weren't good for her."