Friday . April 11 . 2003 . 9:51am paging dr. scholls I am having foot problems. These problems are not swelling, odor, nail, or infection related, but just as bothersome. My feet hurt. They feel like I've been jumping up and down a concrete surface barefoot for the past twelve hours. My heels, the balls under my toes, all the parts of my foot that come into contact with the floor when I walk are aching. I feel like I just ran a marathon in high heels, but I probably didn't even walk three miles today. The last time I had foot pain like this, it was totally my fault. It was during my second rotation during my third year of medical school, and the first one where I had to remain standing for any appreciable amount of time. (The first rotation was Psych. They like to sit down in Psych, which seems, you know, pretty sane.) Since I never had a stand-up rotation before Urology, I didn't really have a good pair of shoes. Sure, I had comfortable work shoes in the civilian sense, in that I could wear them out on the town, walk around, negotiate stairs, all in relative comfort. But I did not have medical work shoes. I did not have shoes that enabled me to be on my feet for fourteen hours straight and not shed tears. My first day in the OR, I was wearing my then-favorite Steve Madden platform loafers (the default work shoes at the time, because all my work pants were too long and I needed the extra height), and by the end of the end of the first case, my soles were on fire. By the end of the third case, I was ready to pop on over to the Ortho rooms next door to request a bilateral below-the-knee amputation. Maybe then I could ride around the hospital on one of those little motorized scooters that old people have, and life would be good again. But then I got me clogs, and life was good again anyway. I have no explanation why for the past two weeks, after average days of errand running and dog walking in clogs and sneakers, my feet feel as though they've been through eight hours of ICU rounds. It feels like my foot bones are grinding directly into the floor. Even standing around barefoot in the kitchen is painful after about a minute. Maybe I lost fat padding in my feet and need to gain it back. Until then, I may have to make do with gel inserts and foot massage. Yes, well, anyway... I was in Bergdorf Goodman today, getting a certain gift for a certain somebody who happens to be marrying me. That is one fancy department store. I mean, really upscale. Bloomingdale's and Macy's are more utilitarian. There's stuff there for everyone, and everyone goes there for stuff. Tourists, prom-shopping teenagers, bargain hunters, Jersey grannies. Saks Fifth Avenue is maybe one step up in quality, but still attracts all types. Henri Bendel, very fancy, but I never really felt out of place there, even though the only reason I ever went is for afternoon tea at their second floor salon. Bergdorf Goodman is where you shop when you are very, very, very rich. Wait, scratch that. Bergdorf Goodman is where you send people to shop for you when you are very, very, very rich. It's a store for the ladies who lunch. All the shoppers know each others names, and the names of all the sales people. Everyone browsing through the shoe and lingerie department were talking on their cellphones. There aren't visible price tags on anything. They sell chocolates hand painted with miniscule reproductions of original artwork. They sell gemstone encrusted jewelry that weighs more than I do. They have a whole department solely devoted to leather tote bags with breathable mesh panels for toting around your little toy breed dogs. No, I am so not kidding. What the hell was I doing at Bergdorf Goodman? Buying the cheapest possible thing in the whole store, that's all I can say. When I got home from my foray into Richlandia, I rested for half and hour (oh, my aching feet) and then took Cooper to the dog park. There, we met up with her friends, Little White Dog Who Likes to Sniff Butts, Big Brown Dog Who Humps Everyone, and Scared Dog Who Pees in The Corner and Then Hides Under a Bench. They had fun, until Big Hungarian Hunting Hound With Distracting Bouncy Testicles came along and started to stir shit up. But by then, I was getting cold, so I rounded up The Coop and headed home. And a parting quasi-wedding related tidbit... Someone got us this blender off our wedding registry, and Joe is completely infatuated with it. Joe and blender, sitting in a tree. Seriously, he was fondling the blender. I think he might take it to bed with us. He says that when he was in junior high and on the football team, he used to sleep with his football, which I find half cute and half scary. "Now I have four children. I will call you...Stitchface." xo Michelle Countdown to the wedding: 17 days |
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Friday . April 11 . 2003 . 9:51am paging dr. scholls I am having foot problems. These problems are not swelling, odor, nail, or infection related, but just as bothersome. My feet hurt. They feel like I've been jumping up and down a concrete surface barefoot for the past twelve hours. My heels, the balls under my toes, all the parts of my foot that come into contact with the floor when I walk are aching. I feel like I just ran a marathon in high heels, but I probably didn't even walk three miles today. The last time I had foot pain like this, it was totally my fault. It was during my second rotation during my third year of medical school, and the first one where I had to remain standing for any appreciable amount of time. (The first rotation was Psych. They like to sit down in Psych, which seems, you know, pretty sane.) Since I never had a stand-up rotation before Urology, I didn't really have a good pair of shoes. Sure, I had comfortable work shoes in the civilian sense, in that I could wear them out on the town, walk around, negotiate stairs, all in relative comfort. But I did not have medical work shoes. I did not have shoes that enabled me to be on my feet for fourteen hours straight and not shed tears. My first day in the OR, I was wearing my then-favorite Steve Madden platform loafers (the default work shoes at the time, because all my work pants were too long and I needed the extra height), and by the end of the end of the first case, my soles were on fire. By the end of the third case, I was ready to pop on over to the Ortho rooms next door to request a bilateral below-the-knee amputation. Maybe then I could ride around the hospital on one of those little motorized scooters that old people have, and life would be good again. But then I got me clogs, and life was good again anyway. I have no explanation why for the past two weeks, after average days of errand running and dog walking in clogs and sneakers, my feet feel as though they've been through eight hours of ICU rounds. It feels like my foot bones are grinding directly into the floor. Even standing around barefoot in the kitchen is painful after about a minute. Maybe I lost fat padding in my feet and need to gain it back. Until then, I may have to make do with gel inserts and foot massage. Yes, well, anyway... I was in Bergdorf Goodman today, getting a certain gift for a certain somebody who happens to be marrying me. That is one fancy department store. I mean, really upscale. Bloomingdale's and Macy's are more utilitarian. There's stuff there for everyone, and everyone goes there for stuff. Tourists, prom-shopping teenagers, bargain hunters, Jersey grannies. Saks Fifth Avenue is maybe one step up in quality, but still attracts all types. Henri Bendel, very fancy, but I never really felt out of place there, even though the only reason I ever went is for afternoon tea at their second floor salon. Bergdorf Goodman is where you shop when you are very, very, very rich. Wait, scratch that. Bergdorf Goodman is where you send people to shop for you when you are very, very, very rich. It's a store for the ladies who lunch. All the shoppers know each others names, and the names of all the sales people. Everyone browsing through the shoe and lingerie department were talking on their cellphones. There aren't visible price tags on anything. They sell chocolates hand painted with miniscule reproductions of original artwork. They sell gemstone encrusted jewelry that weighs more than I do. They have a whole department solely devoted to leather tote bags with breathable mesh panels for toting around your little toy breed dogs. No, I am so not kidding. What the hell was I doing at Bergdorf Goodman? Buying the cheapest possible thing in the whole store, that's all I can say. When I got home from my foray into Richlandia, I rested for half and hour (oh, my aching feet) and then took Cooper to the dog park. There, we met up with her friends, Little White Dog Who Likes to Sniff Butts, Big Brown Dog Who Humps Everyone, and Scared Dog Who Pees in The Corner and Then Hides Under a Bench. They had fun, until Big Hungarian Hunting Hound With Distracting Bouncy Testicles came along and started to stir shit up. But by then, I was getting cold, so I rounded up The Coop and headed home. And a parting quasi-wedding related tidbit... Someone got us this blender off our wedding registry, and Joe is completely infatuated with it. Joe and blender, sitting in a tree. Seriously, he was fondling the blender. I think he might take it to bed with us. He says that when he was in junior high and on the football team, he used to sleep with his football, which I find half cute and half scary. "Now I have four children. I will call you...Stitchface." xo Michelle Countdown to the wedding: 17 days |
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