Your Feet’s too Big
My parents loved the music of Fats Waller, and I still have their old 78 dance records I grew up listening to. “Your Feet’s Too Big” remains one of my favorites.
I have occasion more and more these days to reflect on the significance of that song. It seems the older I get, the bigger my feet become and the further away from me they get. It’s increasingly harder to reach them, and once I get there it gets harder to do things for them.
I have recently begun seeing a podiatrist on a regular basis. One reason for doing so is because my once soft and youthful feet have become hideously ugly. Another reason is I can no longer cut my own nails efficiently. The big and little toenails, especially, have grown as thick and tough as plywood. After just my first visit I was amazed at how much more familiar & friendly my feet seemed once more. And they felt so good! I have accepted, therefore, the fact that I can no longer take care of my poor feet without help from others.
Such admissions of the need for assistance become more frequent as the years go by. Of course, all of our lives we need help from others: for our teeth, our eyes, our hair. But there is something innately absurd and frightening about discovering you can’t even manage your own feet anymore. It brings new poignancy to the accounts of people washing each other’s feet in earlier times.
Part of our journey is learning to accept loss as our constant companion. Eventually we lose everyone and everything we’ve known in this world. For many years we naturally sail against the approaching darkness. We exercise, diet, heed the advice of our doctors, and deny ourselves every joy life has to offer in the vain hope that we can slow down the aging process and the approach of death, but all such strivings provide only temporary illusions that we have made any significant change in the quality of our future and, sooner or later, we must accept our mortality on our own terms.
I can no longer take care of myself as I once could. As Fats observed, “From your ankles up, I say, you sure are sweet. From there down there’s just too much feet.”
Facing this truth helps me appreciate all the more the things I can still do for myself. Finding I can give up tasks to others when time comes helps diminish fears about future losses.
I have occasion more and more these days to reflect on the significance of that song. It seems the older I get, the bigger my feet become and the further away from me they get. It’s increasingly harder to reach them, and once I get there it gets harder to do things for them.
I have recently begun seeing a podiatrist on a regular basis. One reason for doing so is because my once soft and youthful feet have become hideously ugly. Another reason is I can no longer cut my own nails efficiently. The big and little toenails, especially, have grown as thick and tough as plywood. After just my first visit I was amazed at how much more familiar & friendly my feet seemed once more. And they felt so good! I have accepted, therefore, the fact that I can no longer take care of my poor feet without help from others.
Such admissions of the need for assistance become more frequent as the years go by. Of course, all of our lives we need help from others: for our teeth, our eyes, our hair. But there is something innately absurd and frightening about discovering you can’t even manage your own feet anymore. It brings new poignancy to the accounts of people washing each other’s feet in earlier times.
Part of our journey is learning to accept loss as our constant companion. Eventually we lose everyone and everything we’ve known in this world. For many years we naturally sail against the approaching darkness. We exercise, diet, heed the advice of our doctors, and deny ourselves every joy life has to offer in the vain hope that we can slow down the aging process and the approach of death, but all such strivings provide only temporary illusions that we have made any significant change in the quality of our future and, sooner or later, we must accept our mortality on our own terms.
I can no longer take care of myself as I once could. As Fats observed, “From your ankles up, I say, you sure are sweet. From there down there’s just too much feet.”
Facing this truth helps me appreciate all the more the things I can still do for myself. Finding I can give up tasks to others when time comes helps diminish fears about future losses.
posted by Old Timer at 9:21 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home