It's come to Crocs

I am now in physical therapy for my foot. Alert readers will remember that I had foot surgery back in December. A bone spur, basically a problem with the left big toe, no big deal.

Sigh. I suppose I really should have known better. But. Well. I didn't. I thought, you go in, you get the operation, you lie around for a bit, you limp around for a bit, and then all is well. Because that's the point, right? The surgery fixes the problem; it makes all things well.

But foot surgery, it turns out, is like kitchen renovation. It never turns out ok. Every day now I meet someone new who regales me with yet another story of Foot Surgery Gone Bad, a story that always involves many subsequent surgeries to correct the problems caused by the first surgery. And you know what's really frustrating? Everyone seems to know all about all of this. When I tell various enquiring friends and family members that my surgery not only seems to have made the initial problem worse, but to have created new problems, they smile sadly, shake their heads, and say, "Weellll, I was afraid of that. . . "

Fine, fine, just fine. But: new rules, ok? If I am about to do something really self-destructive, you fucking tell me so.

So now I have a locked-solid big toe joint and plantar fasciitis (yes, that's really how it's spelled). Turns out if your toe can't bend, your foot can't roll. Feet must roll. If a foot does not roll, the foot's tendons go on strike. I think it's in their contract or something: no rolling, ok, well then, no stretching. Foot with tendons that don't stretch = foot in pain. And then you know what happens? You start walking funny to reduce the pain, and if you walk funny, you get hip problems, which lead to shoulder problems, which produce neck problems, which infect your brain and you die. Well, not quite, but awfully close because you're limping and you're limited and yes, you've become your grandma. Except she was 85 and you're 50. She was a gentle, gracious lady. And you're a pissed-off , kvetching, middle-aged cripple.

Yesterday I met a fellow foot surgery victim while having my nails shellacked. On my feet I sported these godawful ugly-but-let's-call-them-funky New Balance "flip-flops" (more like the offspring of flip-flops mated with those gargantuan orthopedic shoes that girls named Peggy always had to wear in grade school). Said flip-flop offspring don't bother the scar on the top of my foot. (Oh! right, haven't mentioned The Scar, have I? Turns out my princess-and-the-pea body won't tolerate the dissolving stitches; nope, won't let those vulgar things dissolve in my ultra-fine, oh-so-sensitive interior; so instead each of them is slowly creeping to the surface, accompanied by lots of dramatic inflammation and infection.) Anyhoo, my new foot friend expressed surprise at my footwear (in a kind way; most people just bust out laughing) and said, "I'm amazed you're not wearing Crocs. I don't know what I'd do without my Crocs. That's all I've worn for two years."

Crocs. For two years.

I'm a comfy, funky shoe person. But. Crocs. For two years. Really? It's come to this?