On Feet

Every morning now, when I place my feet on the hardwood floor beside the bed and stand up, the soles of my feet tingle dully as if an electrical current is running through them. Then that gives way to simple soreness and I hobble a few steps toward the bathroom before my feet begin to loosen. They never really stop being sore, though, and even on my days off it feels good to contort them, contracting and stretching the muscles.

I've had full-time jobs before, but never a job that actually involved being on my feet for forty hours a week. And I wear good shoes, good old Docs, but my feet still suffer. But I'll take this side-effect, I think, because the others aren't so bad. Working around books makes me ache to read books. And reading books, I'm discovering, makes me want to write. I'm gradually becoming motivated to get up earlier in the morning than I have to, so I can start my day with something more than just ironing and applying makeup. Even if I don't write, if I study Spanish instead, it hijacks a day of menial tasks and instantly transforms it into a day in which I made knowledge, not just money. And that feels good. Just ignore my protesting feet.