For most of my life, living in warm, sultry climes from New Orleans to San Juan and other hot spots in between, I was well acquainted with my feet because I was often sans socks, and I wore sandals.
Then I moved 7,200 feet into the sky, and it’s quite cool up here. I wear socks all the time. The only moments during which my feet and I renew our acquaintance are the few seconds after the shower and before I don clean socks.
It is during that brief time that I tend to foot hygiene. FYI.
They might even have voted for Obama, the rascals.
But something odd has happened recently. We are in the waning days of the dry, “hot” season. I put hot in quotes because anyone in New Orleans would scoff at what we deem hot here atop the mountain.
In the late afternoon and early evening, my feet cry to be free. So I doff my socks for a few hours, and there they are. Friends from distant days, my feet.
But I know this re-acquaintance will be short-lived. We’ve been getting showers recently, not the full-blown, cooling dailies of the rainy season, but it won’t be long till my feet must be sent back into sock exile.
I will miss them.
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(Note: Yes, the photo is a sock. I spared you a shot of feet, which are almost always unsightly, except occasionally on a woman.)