If cars were like feet and a well-maintained pair of tootsies were likened to a Mercedes, then my feet are currently around a old, Fiat Punto.
In happier times
So, I was being all, hey, I'm going to put in a bit of effort today and actually shave my legs, which let me just point out, is the most arduous task known to womankind but ya know, needs must...
I must have had some pent up anger because I cut my ankles. And I say ankles in the plural sense because that would be correct. At the age of 28 years young, I managed to slice both of my ankles whilst shaving my legs.
I don't know whether I should laugh or cry - or buy a new bloody razor - if you'll pardon the pun.
To make matters worse, I've been walking more than usual which, on the face of it, sounds like an utter bullshit excuse but in an effort to be more 'active' in the evenings, i.e. not sitting on the couch all night watching crap TV, Scott and I have embarked on hour-long power walks around our pool area, which, considering the fact that it's still 1856394 degrees at night, counts as a proper work out.
I'm trying to build up to running again but after my previous attempt at running outside, a feat that left me clinging onto the last threads of life with trembling fingers and a face so crimson that people actually felt the need to stop me and comment on it, I've been feeling somewhat apprehensive.
So yea, walking.
Now, I don't know about you but I'm pretty sure my feet weren't designed for strenuous activity. I can barely put on a pair of slippers before a blister rears its ugly head and renders me sock-bound for days.
You could say I'm like that princess and the pea chick, 'cept with shoes, and well, minus the crown.
My feet are looking less Monet and more Picasso with the sheer amount of scratches, blisters and angry shave cuts, and it's safe to say that sandals are currently completely out of the question. I mean, that's all well and good if you're Tina from Bradford, but I live in the middle of the bloody desert and well, sandals are pretty much a way of life.
So, the moral of the story is that I have hideous feet, I can't operate a razor and walking is bad for you. Take from that what you will. And because I don't want to end this post having moaned entirely about my toes, here's a photo of a goat wearing wellies.