Fact: Nobody in this house listens to me.
Observation: When someone chooses not to listen to me, that someone gets hurt.
Fact: Not as the result of telepathy or voodoo, nor by my hand.
Observation: I don’t particularly like eating humble pie, but holding back the words “Well, I told you so, numb nuts,” can be just as tough.
Another Fact: I run.
Observation: It keeps me sane.
Fact: B&B runs.
Observation: This format is annoying, so I’m just going to tell the story. But first, one more fact.
Fact: Someone didn’t listen to me. And that someone is hobbling around with an injury. Related? You be the judge.
I run. I just do. For lots of reasons. Mostly to cope with the fact that no one listens to me and then people get hurt.
Three years ago, you non-runners may have noticed an ugly footwear trend among the running community. The Five Finger shoes. As if you didn’t already have enough reason to laugh and point at us. They really are aesthetically ridiculous. I was among the first laughing and pointing.
“Look at that fool tricked out with those ridiculous things on his feet. They aren’t sneakers, they are foot gloves! Freakishly ugly foot gloves. I know he has toes, but I don’t need to see each little piggy in all its individual glory.”
I’d done the same thing with the capri trend back in 1998.
“What exactly is she wearing? The choices are simple: shorts or pants. Please commit to one, you just cannot have it both ways.”
I was guilty in the year 2000 of laughing and pointing at Uggs as well.
“$100 for those ugly clodhoppers? Save your money. They’ll never make it beyond this season.”
I type this wearing my capri pants and Ugg boots, while choking down a slice of humble pie with a side of irony. I don’t know where my writing will take me, but I’m fairly sure it won’t land me a gig penning fashion trends.
Have you ever slipped your feet into a pair of Uggs? Sweet Jesus. It’s like walking on warm clouds.
Capris are a genius solution to the tricky bastard I call knee fat. It happens to all of us sooner or later, ladies. As luck would have it, the capri trend arrived before the invention of the shorts with the 3” inseam. Because, post childbirth, 3 inches is the exact measurement that my butt cheeks now rest, collecting perspiration, along the backs of my thighs.
Just like capris and Uggs, the benefits of those Five Finger shoes outweigh the curb appeal. So, yes, of course I bought them. And they were expensive, so luckily the humble pie that came along with them was free. I also bought a pair of racing flats, which are not nearly as ugly, but have arguably less support. Probably not, but this is my story, so I’m rubber/you’re glue. I purchased both pairs with the understanding that I would transition to my running in them slowly and gradually. An abrupt change would almost definitely result in immediate injury.
No problem. People remark to me all the time, “You’re so patient,” and, “I don’t know how you do it, I don’t have the patience,” and, “Sure, your house is a pigsty, but hey, are those Uggs you’re wearing?”
I thought I had enough patience to parent four sons AND gradually transition my running from stability shoes to barefoot.
Not So Fun Fact: I was wrong. It takes all my patience to parent the kids.
I prematurely wore my racing flats during a 5K race. And developed plantar fasciitis as a result. In exchange for my stupidity, I earned a 3 month mandatory break from running. It happened to be the exact same 3 months that the boys were on summer vacation, fueling B&B’s ongoing argument that “there is no god.” I also can’t walk around with bare feet. Ever. Even in my house. Which is actually OK because Legos underfoot hurt. Also, it fuels my argument, “the first to feel the crumbs under his feet should be the first to wield the Swiffer.” That’s not working out as well as I’d hoped.
What’s the lesson here?
Be careful what you mock or you may find yourself injured while your children are home for 90 consecutive days.
So, B&B runs. For lots of reasons. Most of them involve fancy concepts like resting heart rates and VVO2 max.
One day he whizzed past me in the kitchen. “I’m going to get racing flats.”
“Oooh, that’s a terrible idea. You need patience for that,” I laughed.
Never once in his life has anyone ever accused my husband of having patience. Is he resourceful? Yes. Is he relentless? Hell, yes! Patient? Never ever ever ever.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Transitioning to racing flats requires patience. I rushed into it. That’s how I developed plantar fasciitis.”
“You had plantar fasciitis?”
Do you see what I mean? NOBODY LISTENS TO ME.
“Yes, dear. Don’t you remember I couldn’t run for 3 months? And I slept in that godforsaken sock in the heat of summer? It’s why I am wearing flip flops in the house right now. It’s why I always wear shoes in the house. I can’t go barefoot ever again.”
“I thought you just liked flip flops. Anyway, I’m getting the racing flats.”
“I’d like to go on record as opposing this idea. I have really high arches. You have flat feet. We are both at high risk for developing plantar fasciitis, and if I don’t have the patience to do it properly, there’s no chance you do.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“It’s an irrefutable fact, Jack.”
“Don’t call me Jack. Where did you get your information about flat feet being prone to plantar fasciitis? I’d like the source, please.”
“I don’t know. I read it somewhere. 3 years ago when I had plantar fasciitis.”
“If you can’t cite the source, maybe you made it up.”
“Why would I make it up?”
“To win this argument.”
“I am not trying to argue with you. I’m on your side.”
“It doesn’t sound like it.”
“I’m on the side of plantar fasciitis sucks, and I don’t want you to develop it. That’s your side.”
Within a few hours, he was the proud new owner of racing flats. Because nobody. listens. to. me.
And he ran in them. And he didn’t develop plantar fasciitis. I sat one morning and reflected on this. I guess I was wrong. I was actually relieved to be wrong.
I was poised to eat my self-imposed slice of humble pie when B&B limped into the kitchen. “My foot hurts.”
“Did you drop something on it?”
“No, it hurts on the bottom.”
“Did you step on a Lego?”
“No, it hurts where my arch meets my heel.”
“That sounds like plantar fasciitis.”
Here we fucking go again.
“Don’t you remember? Plantar fasciitis?! I had it 3 years ago!”
And out he hobbled. And I placed the humble pie on the shelf. Just in case.
After extensive internet research, several borrowed library books, and urgent phone conversations with family members who are also health care professionals, B&B announced to me, “I have plantar fasciitis.”
I have no poker face. So I met his declaration with a mix of facial acrobatics, none of which are available to the Botox Community, who by the way are the same bitches who can pull off those shorts with a 3” inseam post-kids. Sure, I’ve got deep creases, but I corner the market on facial expressions while I simultaneously rock my capris. So there.
It’s really hard not to say, “I mother fucking done told you this would happen,” when I’m trying to show my spouse empathy. Empathy is the one where you can understand what the other person is going through because you’ve been through it yourself, right? Also I am burdened with this thing called foresight. And in the instant that he announced his injury, I immediately had visions of days, weeks, months of surliness and an existence devoid of post-exercise endorphins punctuated by a mantra of, “there is no god.”
Thank you baby Jesus I was wrong. Not about the plantar fasciitis, about the weeks and months of surliness. B&B is a man with a plan, and his plan was a cortisone injection.
To prepare himself for the procedure, he watched YouTube videos of people receiving the cortisone injection. Have you ever heard an animal wailing and writhing in agony? No? Watch YouTube videos of people receiving cortisone injections directly into their heels. I beg you. Because that’s what I liken the human screaming to. B&B watched them throughout the week at maximum volume so I could appreciate what he’d have to endure.
It was almost as loud as the screaming in my head because this entire injury could have been avoided.
But nobody in this house listens to me.
So I run.
It doesn’t always do the trick.
Which is why I write.
And occasionally, somebody says, “Hey, you have some funny stories. Can you write one for me…and please spell out your numbers…so I can publish it in my book of funny stories?”
And that just happened! Which is not only tremendously pleasing to me, it also silences B&B’s “there is no god” argument for like 2, pardon me, two whole hours.
I Just Want to Be Alone. It’s true. It’s also the name of the new humor anthology containing one of my stories. It’s a funny one involving B&B. Not the one where he dresses like a witch and I pound cupcakes and fantasize about becoming obese just to get some one-on-one time with Bob Harper. A different story, but equally funny. It’s available for pre-order now! So, now’s your chance…
Please listen to me. The book is a scream, and you need to own it.
I would hate for you not to listen.
You might just catch plantar fasciitis if you don’t.
Worth the risk? You be the judge.