Friday, January 26, 2007

The Stinkfoot

Have you ever read somebody's blog, commented, on it, and then thought, "hm, that would make a good blog!"? Probably not. But if you're like me, and you only manage to blog about once every 16 months, and you've taken the time to write out a mildly comical comment on someone else's blog about (wait for it) ... feet, you've just got to know when to recycle your efforts.

It all started when Bruner wrote a post about dirty feet in Southeast Asia. This reminded me of a party I attended about a year and a half ago.

First of all, a little bit about the host: This party was thrown by a fifty-something college professor of "pop and modern cultures" who had a self-proclaimed obsession with Japanese "girl culture" and an uncanny resemblance to our 16th President. I knew little of these predilections when I dressed for the party, having been invited indirectly, through a former acquaintance who knew nothing of the "shoes off" policy. The invitation, while clearly counseling potential party-goers to "dress sharp," made no mention of the lower extremities exposure requirement.

Enter me in a winter white suit and a pair of shiny (and not muddy, or dirty, or dusty) stillettos. Not only were they an integral part of the outfit, without them, the hem of my "meant to be worn with heels" trousers (pristine white and formidably expensive) dragged all night long over the hard wood floors. To the naked eye, the floors looked clean enough, but by evening's end, my snow white hem had absorbed a bleak ring of sooty grey-brown filth that never did come clean.

The abandoned stillettos in question were sandals and, as one might expect, I was otherwise without further foot adornment. By the looks of the hem of my pants, the floor was marginally cleaner than, say, a seven-eleven convenience store. That, coupled with the host's aforementioned predilection with fetish-like "cultures," made me less than eager for a barefoot encounter with the end-product of his obsessions and related perversions.

As distressing as the above may have been, the gross out factor of this story pales in comparison to the cold front that set in on my toes that evening. Because the host expected a press of partygoers to heat the place by body temperature alone, he lowered the heat to a balmy 58 degrees, putting my naked dudes in danger of frostbite.

As if this all weren't bad enough, our host had a few feline friends, who kindly tracked and scattered kitty litter across the hard wood floors. Over the coruse of the evening, tiny shards of litter embedded themselves into my vulnerable footpads. Of course I tried scraping them off before putting my feet back into shoes, but to no avail; the following morning I awoke to a blanket of kitty grit in between the bedsheets.

Gross! The sheets in question were never the same and neither was my winter white suit. Still, there is a silver lining to be found within this painful, podiatric cloud. At the end of the evening, all the hipster hangers on couldn't figure out which Chuck Taylors they ought to wear home.