Just imagine if we could all be ourselves. I’m not sure we wouldn’t kill each other, but no doubt we would let out a collective sigh of relief. The expectations of others is only outdone by the expectations we put on ourselves.
The pressure can be immense.
I feel like one of the bennies of getting older is you become closer and closer to your genuine self. Not that you stop evolving, but you don’t tell yourself as many silly things. There’s acceptance and accommodation that comes as life goes along. It’s a bit liberating and a bonus as your sweet little face somehow starts to droop off it’s skull.
When I was younger, my feet sweat. They were usually stinky too. It was bad. I couldn’t wear shoes without socks and even when I wore socks they were usually pretty gross. It was incredibly embarrassing to my young mind. My hands sweat too, but let’s stick with the feet. I always wanted to wear closed shoes, or shoes without socks, Van’s specifically. I hated that my feet were sweaty and smelly.
I had no idea if any of my friends had sweaty feet because we were all so busy pretending. I had sprays and little socks that didn’t show above my shoes. Lot’s of energy was spent tucking my feet under while playing Twister, or washing my feet in the bathroom during a sleep over.
What if I had just announced to my friends that I couldn’t wear the shoes they were wearing because my feet sweat? What if at the age of say…8, I just told the world? Think of the energy I could have channelled into…maybe playing the cello.
Oh, it would be so lovely to know how to play the cello.
I rarely wear closed shoes now. It’s good that peep toes are in because they are like a little sunroof for my piggies. When I do wear closed shoes my feet still get sweaty, but they don’t smell. I’m guessing that was a hormone thing.
I’m not sure what the hell the point of this post is anymore, but I’m glad I don’t run around trying to pretend I have different feet. I have come to accept that maybe they are so cute that the sweating was their way of keeping me from covering them up. Maybe that’s it.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Foot of the Bed.