BITCHES DONT KNOW BOUT MY PLANTAR FASCIITIS

I am not the ideal subject for this blog; I am just the one who had the idea. I am twenty-nine. I do not have, and never had, a taut and youthful body that I could photograph for the eventual disintegration I promised with the premise. I have, at best, a "classical" body. Therefore I will not be punishing either of us with pictures.

No one would describe me as a vain woman. I wear only the slightest of makeup, the sort that appears to be none at all. I never went blonde or seriously attempted to tan. I was a grim, black-cloaked teenager, who sprayed silver-gray on her hair to look formidable. I was, in short, supposed to be too cool to be so young. And, conversely, too cool to be old.

But plantar fasciitis! The words smell old. They smell like rubber, faintly like worn nylon socks, and distinctly like middle-aged ladies. And I have gone and got it. It was my own fault, for wearing ballet flats without arch support to a hard-walking job. Nevertheless, who does this happen to? Not young, fresh things. Ballet flats are made for the young -- made for scampering, not pounding pavement.

It's hard to watch children and imagine how light their bodies must feel to them -- how light my own bones seemed once.