Monday, January 10, 2011

Day one hundred and one: my feet smell.

My feet are in a perpetual state of smelling awful and that's bound to happen when one works in two restaurants, at least that's what I keep telling myself.


My feet are pretty gross to begin with. I booted off a toenail (this word grosses me out) from careless kicking whilst swimming at Rainbow Falls and then again, exactly a year later (give or take a day), I managed to destroy said toenail (gross) thanks to some brand new socks, a linoleum floor and a dining room table.


That's just my left foot.


I broke my right-index-finger-equivalent-toe when I tumbled down the stairs in a late night bathroom emergency and it still sits kinda gnarly. 


I always feel bad for the poor gal who has to deal with my feet when my girlfriends and I get pedicures. She thinks I don't see but I notice the longing looks she give the other feet, wishing she was working on them instead of the buckets of yuck attached to my legs.


My feet smell bad, and not just for a girl. My feet smell bad for a human being. This may or may not have something to do with my choice in footwear; lately I've been rocking $20 kicks from Zellers. I'm on my feet for at least six hours a day and that's only on the days I work one of my serving jobs. Most days I'm kicking around in my smelly restaurant shoes for 10 or 12 hours and all the food, drink and garbage juice I spill on my feet are bound to seep into my skin. I'm sure,in theory, I could avoid this with a proper pair of shoes but who has the time to search out a pair of shoes that don't look like orthopedic-old-people shoes that should be worn with a matching pastel pant and sweater set from Tan Jay? Not me?


Until then, it's looking like my feet will continue to smell how, what I imagine, a dead body smells or this monkey's finger:

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