If there was any wonder how much fun I had at my own wedding, the proof was in today’s doctor bill.
The day after the wedding the arch of my foot had shooting pains whenever I went on my tiptoes. I knew I had overdone it, particularly during that part seconds after midnight when Everlast commanded that I jump, jump, jump, jump, everybody jump.
I went to a podiatrist this morning and as I was waiting for half an hour in his empty office, I self-diagnosed the neuroma based on the posters on the wall. The doctor said that while I didn’t give myself this condition, I’ve been making it worse every time I jam my feet into super-cute shoes. “You might have overdone it at your wedding. You were dancing for how many hours in a row?”
“You must have been really dancing.”
“You have no idea.”
“And how long were you standing in those shoes?”
“About… ten hours.”
“I’d say you might want to stay away from tight shoes for a few weeks.”
And then he put a needle between my toes.
My mom had a brief knitting hobby until the day my father accidentally kicked one of her needles that happened to be lying on the floor. It slammed into a wall and jammed into his foot, between his toes. It’s seriously the most painful thing I’ve ever imagined, and it makes my toes curl whenever I think about it (except not today because a couple of my toes are still a little numb). Mom said that was the last day she ever touched knitting needles. This morning, as the doctor injected cortisone between my third and fourth toes, as the nerves in the arch of my foot felt to be twisting like a barber shop pole, I thought about poor Dad and his knitting needle debacle.
Seriously, no cute shoe is worth this. I’m living in sneakers from now on. Suck it, Carrie Bradshaw.
The doctor said the one thing I need to do over the next couple of weeks to aid recovery is receive “frequent foot massages.” Sweet! Married life rocks!