Nov. 5, 2009

My birth certificate is a sham. Apparently, I’m not a 31-year-old girl, I’m a 76-year-old farmer whose foot is too sore to kick the bucket.

It all started about a week ago.

See, my feet are really picky when it comes to shoes. I know there are plenty of cute flats and sassy little sneakers designed for the sporty girl, but no matter how hard I try, I find that my foot repels anything with less than a 2-and-a-half-inch boost.

In other words, I’m addicted to high heels, and I don’t intend to come back down to earth anytime soon.

I know people who have dealt with foot challenges. One word from an all-knowing podiatrist, and a girl’s shoe options are suddenly narrowed down to doctor-approved choices. In case you’re wondering, these medical darlings come in three delightful colors: dark, light and drab.

So last week my foot started to hurt. Don’t get me wrong, by the time I’m done clicking and clacking through my morning errands, my feet are silently screaming for a release from their platform stilettos (seriously, it’s an addiction).

And three hours at the mall is about all I can take before trading my Go-Go boots for a bench. But that just comes with the territory. Twenty shoeless minutes later, I’m usually ready to jump back into the patent leather saddle and tackle another round.

But the other day, I took my favorite cheetah print heels off and the pain didn’t go away. In fact, just sitting on the couch with my foot propped up was painful. No stimulation necessary — my aching foot was actually throbbing to the beat of “We’re-not-gonna-take-it,” and no stern talking to could force that appendage back into its animal print cage.

So here I am a week into severe foot pain, facing the painful realization that it’s mid-October and the only non-heel shoes I own are a single pair of brown flip-flops. Something has to be done.

Today I went to the doctor, foot in tow. I gimped my way through the reception area, tried not to touch any of the swine flu-affected reading material and eventually hobbled into a patient care room.

“So, what do we have here?” Doc said, taking my foot in his hands and giving it a good once over. I detailed my condition and steeled myself for the “No more heels!” lecture he was sure to give me.

“Hmm, I think I know what you have,” he said with a little glint.

“Go ahead, just tell me now,” I said, squinting my eyes and preparing for the worst.

“You have gout.”

Gout? Seriously? Isn’t The Gout (as my parents like to call it) specifically designed for old men who have spent too many years feeding cattle? Men like (dare I say it out loud) my father?

“No,” I replied. “No-no-no-no-no. I can’t have The Gout. I’m a girl, and I’m practically a child!” He quickly assured me that while it’s rare, with my family history (thanks, Dad), it’s not that surprising.

I guess being an old soul has its drawbacks. Apparently, as far as my age is concerned, my feet didn’t get the memo.

See more at Annie's blog at regardingannie.com