My feet have magically gotten smaller.
Back when I was much fatter, about three years ago, I wore size 11 shoes. Since then, I’ve managed to reduce the size of my body by one third. My feet got smaller, too. At first, I didn’t believe it. Shoe size is determined by the length of your foot bones, isn’t it? In the past, when other people told me about their feet getting smaller, I called them liars. “Get out of here, you evil, lying bastards,” I said.
Last year, in January, I went to a fancy shoe store, where they told me I wore size 10 ½. That was all well and good, but they only had spookily ugly shoes in that size, so I bought two pairs in 11.
Right after that, I stopped eating sugar, bread, pasta, rice and potatoes. (Nothing white, I guess.) And I lost weight. And next thing I knew, I started tripping all the time. I was always stumbling over my own feet. I assumed it was because I had started hanging out with this guy named Tad and I secretly wanted to have sex with him. Maybe I was subconsciously trying to make myself fall so that he could catch me. Once I was in his arms, how could he resist kissing my helpless, clumsy face?
Now Tad is my boyfriend and he goes with me to buy shoes. And he is my witness — I now wear size 10. He doesn’t want to believe that feet can get smaller, but he must. The evidence is right there under his girlfriend’s legs.
Now I need to replace all my size 11s with size 10s so that I won’t stumble anymore. The good news is that I can buy shoes anywhere in the world. No more being forced to shop at either Payless or the expensive bigfoot-old-lady store. The bad news is that I’m broke right now. No money in the clothing budget. I can’t even afford Payless, much less the expensive old lady store or anything else.
I might just go to the regular stores and try on size 10 shoes without buying them.
Or I might just lie barefoot on the couch, where I can’t fall down, and kiss my boyfriend for the rest of the week.
