Diagnosis: or Give Me A Freaking Break

Here is the diagnosis of mon doux pied:

metatarsalgia.

Would you like to know what metatarsalgia translates to from the Latin?
BALL OF THE FOOT PAIN.
Jesus.  No shit, Sherlock.

Basically Lucho got it. Thanks, Lucho! You win the House prize... I should have just listened to you instead of going to el doctor, since el doctor told me verbatim what you did. sigh.

So the deal is that my feet are anatomically challenged. I knew they were brutal hasslich, but apparently they are also just totally fucked up. I have bunions (inherited and then made worse by years of dance en pointe as a young lassie) that are now pretty much at a 90 degree angle. Add to this that I have a Morton's toe, (second toe is longer than my big toe), and an extra bone in my second metatarsal region.  (I also have a Plantar Wart on my heel that has been with me since sixth grade, incurable athlete's foot and mangled, yellow toenails that often fall off, but apparently those features of my delicate tootsies have nothing to do with my metatarsalgia, they merely add to the glamor of my lovely feet.)

Don't you just want to suck on my toes? I thought so. Get in line.

Apparently there is no real cure for this ailment. I need to, as Lucho suggested, wear shoes with a wide toe box, I need arch supports, and I need metatarsal pads for the balls of my feet. The problem was exacerbated by my running, but not the cause of it, so that's nice to know. Even if I sat on my ass all day I would likely have the old ball of the foot pain, just because of the nature of my feet. 

Well, all's well that ends well. I need to get me some little Arthrex inserts and I'm good to go. If the pain persists, the cure is to suck it up and deal.

_____________________
Onto other riveting items:

I loved the responses to my Weight post. It made me all warm and fuzzy inside to know that most of you liked my list. I did get a few responses, though, that are worth mentioning, and that weren't so warm and fuzzy.

The most important was from my big sis, Laura. She emailed me privately to make a super good point, but a point she thought too personal to share. I disagree with her on that. The point is wicked important, and so I NEED to share it.
It's this:
I hated my body when I was a teenager. I hated my body and I hate who I was. She (my teenaged self) doesn't derseve my hate, though. In fact, she deserves my love and respect. I had a gorgeous body, beautiful breasts, and I was sought after by many a boob-loving boy. I was ashamed of my chest, and ashamed of my weight--but in retrospect I see that I was quite babe-a-licous when I wasn't covering myself up in gigantic white t-shirts and apologizing for my curves.

Here's the thing. Whether I was fat or not, hot or not, I need to not say repeatedly that I was a porkster as a kid. This is less for my benefit, or yours, and more for that of my daughters. Laura's words:

"You were not porky at all. You had a good sized chest,  but you were not fat, porky, or anything like that. I bring this up because I am a little worried that those kinds of comments (which you have made about yourself for many years) might make it hard for Jordan and Lara as they get older. As they grow up, they will be aware that they have two incredibly athletic parents, and a mother who has not an ounce of fat on her body. This body type and shape may not be something they end up with naturally, and they may begin to feel that they are not what they should be- and that they are a disappointment to you. They will not only have the media images bombarding them, but also the images of a very competitive triathlete world. What if they are shorter of stature and have big breasts? What if they look a lot like you did at 18?"

Yep. I fucking cried. It's one thing to hate a past self. It's another to foist that hate on your innocent daughters, who have done nothing but inherit your genes and your home.

So I thought I should share that.

Thanks,Laura.  xo