I can’t believe, of all the ways my body can fall apart as I age, it’s going to be my feet.
Regular readers may recall me complaining about an irksome case of plantar fasciitis that required me to cut back on my weekly mileage and, yawn, stretch regularly.
What a boring malady.
This week, my toes are numb.
If they got they way from excessive curling, you can bet I wouldn’t be complaining about it in a public forum, but no, they’re numb, I suspect, because I ran 5.4 miles on Tuesday.
Oh, it felt to so good to run so far. I tried it just to see if I could do it after witnessing that 10K last Saturday, and lo and behold, I still have long distances in me.
But two of my toes are numb. And they’ve been that way since Tuesday.
Google diagnoses Morton’s neuroma. The internet prognosis? “Nonsurgical treatment does not always improve symptoms. Surgery to remove the thickened tissue is successful in about 85% of cases.”
I saw a little boy today (yes, brief change of subject, but it’s relevant — stay with me), and he was enthusiastically sweeping a garage. At first I thought he was a midget (what kid sweeps with enthusiasm?) but when he was done, he propped the broom in the corner and skipped — skipped — across the clean floor.
The skip gave him away as a child. Adults. Don’t. Skip.
Old people walk slow, shuffle, keen side-to-side, avoid walking altogether because it hurts — somewhere — to walk normally.
It’s going to be my feet that have me waddling into old age.