There is a charge

for the eyeing of my scars

-- Sylvia Plath

I am the odd sort of self-conscious: baggy clothes to hide a chest I perceive as too large, no form-fitting jeans or too-short tops lest they reveal a tummy that is not as trim as it should be. Avoid, avoid, avoid looking at mirrors except when absolutely necessary. The person who turns away when photographs are taken. Despite this, I never really wanted to change anything about my appearance.

Except my feet.

Scarred feet are decidedly un-feminine and unlovely. Women are supposed to have tiny, pretty feet that look good in cute little shoes. Women, pure women, are not supposed to be scarred at all. How can one be glamorous with unsightly blemishes? I have never seen people on the beach with scarred feet.

I have tried everything to make the scars on my feet less noticable, and for all I know I have succeeded. To me, though, they will ever be invisible enough.

Here's the weird part: converse to my embarrassment, I wear sandals (yes, the hippie kind) for as long as I can during the year, and walk barefoot whenever I can.

(why are you complaining? you may ask. Walking barefoot's just asking for injury. Oh boy, you got me there, cowboy. Just keep reading.)

You see, I do not care who sees my scars in day-to-day life. I am proud of them, in some way, because I earned them from hard work and suffering.

Only when I catch someone staring at do I feel the flush of embarrassment creeping to my cheeks. What thoughts whirl about their brains? What unkind judgements have been made? Will I ever be able to convince a lover to kiss my feet? Or will he grimace and tell me he has to go home?

I aquired my scars mostly from rowing, from the ill-fitting shoes that are attatched to the shell. Running to and from practice, tearing up old blisters and making new ones, day after day. My heels are discolored a sickly bilous yellow from thick callouses which will never go away, and the balls of my feet are pitted and cracked from a plantar-wart cures gone bad.

Angry red stripes of scar tissue run across my big toes. Some are from walking barefoot on hot asphalt. Some are from other injuries best not spoken about.

(like the time I was turning on the tub faucets with my feet and burned them by accident, or the time I wasn't paying attention on the beach and walked over a cluster of really sharp rocks)

I was staying at a friend's house a few months ago. He had gorgeous wooden floors and stairs, so I took off my shoes and socks and walked around barefoot.

"Don't look at my feet." I said when I caught him staring at my bare toes, which prompted him to peer at them more carefully.

After a time he asked "Why not?"

"Because they're all scarred and calloused and banged up. Ugly. Gross."

I wanted to tell him why, but wanted him to be the curious one for a change. So I kept my mouth shut.

"Wear socks then" was his reply.

"No way," I spat, then rolled my eyes. "How can you not walk barefoot on a wooden floor? You only make the good floor sounds when you're barefoot."

I know this from hours of pacing on my own wooden floors, which creak and groan in a Lou Reed guitar feedback/John Cale viola kind of way.

Besides, you should only wear socks when you want to do the Slide -- you probably tried it as a kid, take a short running start and stop short, sliding a couple of feet until you crash into a counter or wall.

I digress. Sorry.

Some people don't get it, and they never will. Being barefoot is a simple pleasure; one I indulge in every chance I get. Maybe I have this need to feel rooted to the earth, a desire to feel the texture of floor coverings.

Or maybe I'm just trying to make peace with my scars.