I suffer from podophobia. Sounds scary right? Not really it’s just an unexplained fear of feet. There are probably many things in my past that triggered this fear, some include my brother’s old habit of leaving his grotesque socks everywhere, or the time we drove from Arkansas to Utah and he kept taking his shoes off therefore producing the foulest odor known to man, mythical creature and fish.
Feet, however is not my peeve. For the most part feet are great. They get you places, and you can decorate them with Jimmy Choos and stevemaddens and Manolo Blahniks.
“Aren’t those shoes?” they ask.
“No Birkenstocks are shoes, these are works of art! “ I answer.
Yes feet are great. Praise God for feet.
The peeve comes from when I tell someone I hate feet.
While I’m saying, “I don’t like feet,” someone else is hearing, “I love feet. Put your feet all over me, and everything I own. What! You just ran a marathon and your feet smell like curdled milk and skunk poo, plus look like they’ve been lynch-mobbed. Well I want to see them and touch them and bottle their scent!”
That’s not what I said you fiend, and just because you found the glass-encased big red button doesn’t mean you should push it. Finding someone’s weakness and then exploiting it isn’t funny, unless you’re Bugs Bunny or seven or Ashton Kutcher. But here in the post Punk'd, adult-nonfiction world you simply look like a douche bag and a half.
It’s like being followed by a creepy guy in a bar.
(FAKE SCENARIO)
“Hey shawty, baby girl, let me buy you something to sip on,” the creeper said.
“Sorry I have a boyfriend,” said thoroughly grossed out girl.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t buy you a drink,” he states, his gold tooth gleaming.
“Did I say boyfriend, I meant girlfriend. I’m a lesbian,” said the girl as she wraps her arms around the first friend she can reach.
“I’ll buy you both a drink.”
“Did I say lesbian, I meant I’m transgender and I have airborne herpes!”
Pause….
“You can still drink, right?”
“Grrr”
(AND SCENE)
Some losers never quit.
What is this urge some people have to test ones limitations? Why do some seek joy in picking at others emotional scabs? Were you not hugged enough as a child? Well go bug your parents. Unlike them I don’t have to rely on you when I’m old, so it won’t bother me chop you in the gullet.
I’m reminded of when I was a wee child and a girl thought it would be funny to cover my mouth with a napkin at Vacation Bible School. Frustrated that I couldn’t get out of her grip and unable to breath, I bit her finger. Hard. She cried and tattled on me.
“That’s what you get,” the supervising adult said. Got to love a black Christian woman!
But I’m still left to wonder, where was the funny in that situation? And why as we get older the need to push doesn’t go away? Take this drunken guy outside this bar.
I guess those are loaded questions. As long as there are little brothers (and chatty nieces, wink, wink), and snot-nosed, Ivy League guys peskiness will be there. Pestering, the Kayne West of peeves.
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