Have you ever hear that lovely old sexist observation that one can tell how well a woman takes care of herself by her feet? I’ve heard it said in both polite and vulgar language, and although it is a patriarchal construct, so are we, hard as we may resist.

I’ve always loved my feet. They are pretty. Nicely formed with high arches- an accident of nature that I’ve always been inordinately proud of, as if I could take credit for it myself. Maybe because of that old sexist belief, maybe simply because I love my feet, I’ve always taken care of them. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not tiny, petite, so-called “aristocratic” feet. I wear a size 8-1/2 shoe, and if I have my druthers I wear no shoes at all. For all that I’m a nature kinda gal, a true earth mama type, I’m damn near prissy about my feet. I love pedicures, and have been in the past accustomed to treating myself to them on a fairly regular basis. The occasional pedicure however, cannot keep up with the abuse this earth mama puts her feet through, let alone meet her standards in footiquette.

So normally I spend no small amount of time in the bath with the pedi-wand, and pumice stone and after bath with the various implements of foot care.

“And what”, you might ask, “does this have to do with anything, Thornie??” To which I respond that in my usual, rambling stream-of consciousness way, I am coming to the point. The point being that over a week ago, somewhen just before I seem to have hit an emotional bottom when I faced the fact that I had lost any real desire for continued existence outside of the need to be here for my daughter; some unremembered when a bit before that I noticed that my pumice stone, the bright purple one- my absolute favorite stone ever with the charming though unoriginal name of “Mr. Pumice” inscribed upon its surface, (and if that isn’t more evidence of sexism, what is??)- I noted that it was not in its usual niche in the tub.

The importance of the mystery of the whereabouts of the stone was not lost on me, although I can’t say that it mattered much to me at the time. It appeared that I had stopped caring for my feet some time ago. I have no idea exactly when after our Bishop died, only know without a doubt that it was indeed after his death.

I don’t think I gave it even a passing thought in the next several days, but then I’m sure I didn’t bathe during that time. My feet are not the only thing I have been neglecting, although knowing well the importance of bathing even when depressed I have managed to do that every few days. I’m sure this was an effort to delude myself as well as my partner as to the true state of my mind, but there it is.

Process.

Friday I bathed and considered the stone… my feet… gave a mental shoulder shrug and did nothing.

Sunday in the shower I again considered my feet, wondered about the whereabouts of my stone and dismissed the thought of tending to my feet in the shower as opposed to the bath, but decided it was an important thing for me to do. A small and simple, perhaps pointless but maybe not; sort of thing to do as part of my attempt to drag myself from this despair.

This morning I sought, found and used my happy purple stone. Then I tended to my feet with the implements of after-bath care. Finally I polished my toenails. A semi transparent lime green with glitter. As much as I love green in the springtime, I don’t really care for the color.

But I’m glad I did it.