Obviously, that quote is attributed to a breast man or an ass man.
Let’s just say that New York Jet’s coach, Rex Ryan would not have asked for my hand, or rather my foot in marriage.
Fred Flintstone feet is the most popular keyword phrase generating search engine traffic to my blog for a reason. I have them.
It’s all fun and games spending your life walking about the earth with the gentle stride of Mr. Ed until suddenly you can’t walk without pain. That’s what happened to me recently.
I couldn’t figure out why in the hell I had knee pain for two months. If only it was from the intense exercise I’m supposed to be doing to drop some tonnage. It could have been from tripping over the dog ten times a day as she sleeps at my feet in the kitchen, walking in my Ugg slippers or giving my tween-age daughter piggy back rides because I have Peter Pan syndrome and won’t let her grow up.
Finally, I caved and went to the doctor. Everything checked out so she referred me to physical therapy. That’s where I met my other Prince Charming, my physical therapist.
He started out the session measuring how far I could bend my knee and then measuring the diameter for swelling. I hope to God it was in degrees or I’m going to have to buy my pants from the North Pole.
After hobbling around the parallel bars and unable to get myself up the stairs, he had me walk for him.
Suddenly, he blurted out, “You need Orthotics.”
My mind flashed from my burgundy-colored, prescription Herman Munster shoes from the First Grade to the white, Velcro-strapped wedges in the back of Parade Magazine. At the mere age of 50, my life in cute shoes was over. But alas, I didn’t have to order my shoes from the back of a magazine, I could get some inserts from the Dr. Scholl’s Footmapping Station.
Let’s just say I took my “Ass Man” and better-half on a date to the local Meijer to purchase a set of Orthotics. Disappointed because our trek was not to Victoria Secret, my Ass Man choose to wait in the car so the image of his bride getting measured for Orthotics wasn’t burned in the hard drive for later.
The Footmapping Station is actually very impressive. The most difficult part was getting over my germophobia so I could remove my shoes and start the evaluation. Apparently, everyone else has the same fear because in big letters, “Sanitized Often” is emblazoned on the machine.
I answered a few questions and before long, a full-color map of my foot appeared on the rather large flat-screen television monitor. I really don’t know what all the colors meant but it looked like a warning for Hurricane Flintstone. The machine made my Orthotics recommendation and damn! My number was sold out. Apparently, all of Bedrock shops at Meijer.
In the meantime, it started hailing outside. As I hobbled out to find my Ass Man, he had pulled the car up under the overhang on the sidewalk. My own personal Ricky Bobby. The redneck NASCAR move paid off because our car was hail damage free!
So the next morning, I headed for WalMart. I’m sorry, I’m one of those people who loathes Wally World. And it’s ironic, because I’m turning into a People of WalMart overnight. Luckily, the Dr. Scholl’s station was fully stocked. I guess my kind need as much orthotic support as they can cram their feet into.
As I was paying for my purchase, I could feel someone staring at me. It was a WalMart greeter. Not your typical, smiley, senior citizen, have a nice day greeter, but a miniature Wally Cop. Do I really look like a shoplifter? Sure, the Orthotics are about $50, not cheap. I quickly rang up my merchandise and hobbled out.
As I hobbled my way through the exit, the alarm suddenly rang. Holy crap! No one took the shoplifter alarm out of the package. I was praying the Wally cop did not chase me down because it was clear I could not outrun him without the aid of my new Orthotics.
Long story short, my physical therapist is my new Prince Charming because after a month, I’m walking like Cinderella. Like Cinderella with Mr. Ed’s gait, but no less, without pain.