Foot fetish

When I was in nurs!ng school, there was a singular experience known as the Community Health Rotation. This clinical time was marked with a colorful spectrum of people and encounters.

Some nights I carried a pager and the keys to a safe house for domestic violence victims.

Then there was the night where I rode shotgun with my hometown's finest for an evening of police calls.

On a few occasions I drove around town with a preceptor, trying to track down a schizophrenic patient for a medication refill.

Other evenings found me at a warehouse in a dicey part of town, sitting in on a gathering that was one part confessional, one part support group, two parts psychotic episode. {Husby even came with me to one of those...I dare you to tell me you've been on a stranger date than a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.}

I discovered that, to one degree or another, we each harbor our own special blend of imbalances, freakish impulses, and inappropriate behaviors, all tied up with the thread of our coping mechanisms. {Or lack thereof.} Sometimes the only thing separating me from the patently wackadoo circle of patients was the fact that I had a firm grip on my brain/mouth barrier. In short, the slim margin between us was simply the fact that I didn't say aloud every oddball thing that flitted through my consciousness. At least for that evening.

Well, folks, in the light of these experiences, I have to admit that I've slipped a little. There is a sickness that chews its way deep into the fiber of my being. Sometimes it sleeps, dormant. But it never goes away entirely.

Hi, my name is Imelda.

It's been two days since my last shoe purchase.

First I was just going to look.

One look can't hurt, right?

And then that look wasn't enough.

I've been thinking about them nonstop since I saw them. Waiting for just the right time to act. Hitting the refresh button over and over, waiting for the magic word to appear..."sale".

And then before you know it, I'm rationalizing all kinds of craziness. Like how they'll keep my feet dry in the rain because winter in Portland is all about rain, and how I can even use them in the garden. I try to talk around the fact that I don't even have a garden because I now live in an apartment...someday I will walk in the mud again!! My husband calls me a shoe hussy, and I'm afraid he may be right.

I think how good it will feel to caress the shiny surface.

I can almost imagine that new shoe smell.

Yeah. I cracked like an egg. Fell off the bandwagon.

And I'm not too broken up over it; after all, the winters here ARE pretty rainy.