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Copyright 2004 by N. Julius |
Rocky Footing Childhood is not a victimless crime. It destroys all our lives by trapping us inside our ever-changing bodies when they are at their most volatile. We grow up scarred for life by memories of lanky limbs, stubborn skin, or suddenly unmanageable hormones. Even if your enormous buck teeth eventually grow together and blend in, you'll always have the nagging sense that everyone can see the vestigial gap between them. You'll never eat a meal without checking to make sure no small particulate – a whole carrot perhaps, or a railroad tie – is caught in them drawing attention. Or maybe I'm just projecting here. As has been noted earlier, I'm not a big fan of my feet. Even though people now make conciliatory noises about them, noting that they're not nearly as big and terrifying as I think they are, my perception of my flippers stopped developing when I was 12 years old. I was a wispy kid, barely five feet tall, who showed every sign of growing into a petite adult. Indeed, the only thing that betrayed this future was my feet. By this time, they had already ballooned to size 8 ½. In fact, the right foot was in such a hurry to fulfill its growth potential that it was a half size larger. Both feet were flat enough to iron shirts, sticking straight out from the end of my legs like mighty horizontal redwoods. So large and obtrusive were my feet that I was unceremoniously booted out of ballet class. It seems the manufacturers of toe shoes were at that time ill-prepared for the podiatrically enhanced prima donna. Of course, when 25% of your body mass is taken up by your feet you're not exactly graceful anyway. Worse yet, the feet developed a sort of pedal halitosis so profound it was known to cause fellow passengers to try and roll down their windows. On planes.
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