During a recent conversation with a dear friend and co-worker, I came to the conclusion, again, that we (women) are our own worst enemy. We lamented on how our perception of our bodies delegate how valuable we are or whether we should even attempt to date. I know it doesn't make sense but we are so concerned with our outward "beauty" that it resonates down to our feet.
Case in point, a few weeks ago I was in New York visiting my oldest and dearest friend. She hosted a party at her house during my visit. I had an idea about photographing our feet. No, I don't play host to a foot fetish, but I've always liked my feet. Here's how it played out.
Imagine if you will, a house full of party guests, half of whom are women. We've been drinking for a least two hours, sang the words to every commercial or 70's TV show we could think of, discussed how we met our significant others and shared our drunken views of politics. I mention my idea, break out my camera and ask for participants. Suddenly, all the women are sober and are rationalizing whether or not to participate. "I haven't had a pedicure all winter", "but my feet are gross", "if I take my feet out of my boots, I'll never get them to go back in", "you're weird and no, I won't take my shoes off". I reassure them that the picture will not indicate the owner of the foot, just the willingness to participate. I tell them that I'm not doing this because I'm drunk, but because I believe our feet are the unsung hero's of our bodies.
As a child, my feet ran across hot sand at the beach, hot pavement on the way to the ice cream truck and stuck in the spokes of my brother's bicycle. As a teenager, I painted my toe nails (still do), wore toe socks and danced at my senior prom. As an adult, my feet carried me down the aisle, into the hospital to deliver my children and into divorce court. As a middle aged lady, I have given up "sexy" shoes for sneakers, still opt for bare feet on my way out to my hammock and allow my grandson to stand on the tops of them for an added inch of height. I abuse them by standing on them too long without shoes and reward them with spa pedicures. They are mine all mine and I love the way they look.
By adding a little more pressure and a little more alcohol to the ladies at the party, I was successful in getting about two thirds of them to participate. Today, I celebrate my feet and their ability to get me out of bed when I don't want to, to church on Sunday, to the dance floor when the music calls and for being a true reflection of my beauty, unlike the rest of my body. I also celebrate the women of East Meadow, NY for indulging me in my experiment. Judging by their feet, they are all beautiful!
Case in point, a few weeks ago I was in New York visiting my oldest and dearest friend. She hosted a party at her house during my visit. I had an idea about photographing our feet. No, I don't play host to a foot fetish, but I've always liked my feet. Here's how it played out.
Imagine if you will, a house full of party guests, half of whom are women. We've been drinking for a least two hours, sang the words to every commercial or 70's TV show we could think of, discussed how we met our significant others and shared our drunken views of politics. I mention my idea, break out my camera and ask for participants. Suddenly, all the women are sober and are rationalizing whether or not to participate. "I haven't had a pedicure all winter", "but my feet are gross", "if I take my feet out of my boots, I'll never get them to go back in", "you're weird and no, I won't take my shoes off". I reassure them that the picture will not indicate the owner of the foot, just the willingness to participate. I tell them that I'm not doing this because I'm drunk, but because I believe our feet are the unsung hero's of our bodies.
As a child, my feet ran across hot sand at the beach, hot pavement on the way to the ice cream truck and stuck in the spokes of my brother's bicycle. As a teenager, I painted my toe nails (still do), wore toe socks and danced at my senior prom. As an adult, my feet carried me down the aisle, into the hospital to deliver my children and into divorce court. As a middle aged lady, I have given up "sexy" shoes for sneakers, still opt for bare feet on my way out to my hammock and allow my grandson to stand on the tops of them for an added inch of height. I abuse them by standing on them too long without shoes and reward them with spa pedicures. They are mine all mine and I love the way they look.
By adding a little more pressure and a little more alcohol to the ladies at the party, I was successful in getting about two thirds of them to participate. Today, I celebrate my feet and their ability to get me out of bed when I don't want to, to church on Sunday, to the dance floor when the music calls and for being a true reflection of my beauty, unlike the rest of my body. I also celebrate the women of East Meadow, NY for indulging me in my experiment. Judging by their feet, they are all beautiful!
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