Blistered and Burnt
I really racked up my feet over the weekend. Friday evening B and I and our friend T.O. walked to a bar about a half mile away. Since it was sunny and summery, I wore a skirt and platform sandals that look like this except without a trace of Gothiness. After we had a beer, we decided to walk another mile or so over to a Middle Eastern restaurant.
But by the time I limped across our threshold later that night, I knew the sandals had let me down. In the past, I’ve walked up to five miles in them without incident, which made me very happy because up until I bought these sandals (B calls them “hooves”) every other pair of sandals I’d ever worn (from age 4 onward), had done something unspeakable to my poor feet. So finding the hooves was a godsend.
But as I said, they let me down on Friday. I think the problem is that, basically, they’re just worn out. The wide canvas band that secures my foot to the footbed is coming loose on the right sandal. I think that explains why I got the blisters—my right foot was slip-slidin' around as I walked. I’m hoping, however, I can find a new pair of identical hooves. Are they still in style?
Anyway. I laid kinda low on Saturday and to keep the hobbling down to a minimum. And by yesterday, the blisters weren’t bothering me much. Time for a hike! A hike near the Coast so that we could escape the 101 degree heat in Portland (you read that right--one hundred and one farking degrees in the supposedly cool-summer Pacific Northwest).
B and I drove until we got to the western edge of the continental United States, where is was breezy and the absolute perfect temperature. We walked barefoot along the sand as the Columbia River occasionally lapped over our feet. It was heavenly! I don’t think I’ve walked barefoot for any length of time since I was a kid. We kept walking until the Columbia met the Pacific Ocean and became markedly colder! Then we walked back.
We congratulated ourselves on how we’d managed to find a relatively uncrowded and delightful beach on a day when most of Portland probably fled to the Coast. It even had an eerily picturesque shipwreck submerged in it. "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" has been stuck in my head ever since I laid eyes on this wreck, which, by the way, is the Peter Iredale, a British sealing vessel that ran aground during a storm in 1906.
We got home after sunset and that’s when we noticed that we had both managed to burn the tops of our feet. B has never in his life worn sandals or shoes without socks so, basically, he was exposing virgin flesh to the sun when he trooped down the beach barefoot for six miles. It now looks like he’s wearing pink socks. I have two angry, amorphous red blotches on the tops of my feet. And one of the blisters developed another blister on top of it. I don’t quite understand how that happened, but I guess I can see (now) how walking on abrasive sand might not be conducive to blister healing.
At least we didn’t step on any jellyfish. These horrible things were all over the place!
But by the time I limped across our threshold later that night, I knew the sandals had let me down. In the past, I’ve walked up to five miles in them without incident, which made me very happy because up until I bought these sandals (B calls them “hooves”) every other pair of sandals I’d ever worn (from age 4 onward), had done something unspeakable to my poor feet. So finding the hooves was a godsend.
But as I said, they let me down on Friday. I think the problem is that, basically, they’re just worn out. The wide canvas band that secures my foot to the footbed is coming loose on the right sandal. I think that explains why I got the blisters—my right foot was slip-slidin' around as I walked. I’m hoping, however, I can find a new pair of identical hooves. Are they still in style?
Anyway. I laid kinda low on Saturday and to keep the hobbling down to a minimum. And by yesterday, the blisters weren’t bothering me much. Time for a hike! A hike near the Coast so that we could escape the 101 degree heat in Portland (you read that right--one hundred and one farking degrees in the supposedly cool-summer Pacific Northwest).
B and I drove until we got to the western edge of the continental United States, where is was breezy and the absolute perfect temperature. We walked barefoot along the sand as the Columbia River occasionally lapped over our feet. It was heavenly! I don’t think I’ve walked barefoot for any length of time since I was a kid. We kept walking until the Columbia met the Pacific Ocean and became markedly colder! Then we walked back.
We congratulated ourselves on how we’d managed to find a relatively uncrowded and delightful beach on a day when most of Portland probably fled to the Coast. It even had an eerily picturesque shipwreck submerged in it. "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" has been stuck in my head ever since I laid eyes on this wreck, which, by the way, is the Peter Iredale, a British sealing vessel that ran aground during a storm in 1906.
We got home after sunset and that’s when we noticed that we had both managed to burn the tops of our feet. B has never in his life worn sandals or shoes without socks so, basically, he was exposing virgin flesh to the sun when he trooped down the beach barefoot for six miles. It now looks like he’s wearing pink socks. I have two angry, amorphous red blotches on the tops of my feet. And one of the blisters developed another blister on top of it. I don’t quite understand how that happened, but I guess I can see (now) how walking on abrasive sand might not be conducive to blister healing.
At least we didn’t step on any jellyfish. These horrible things were all over the place!
posted by Rozanne at 11:11 AM
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