This evening I put on my slippers: old man slippers for that matter, the kind with the fuzzy wool on the inside that overflows onto the sides, the kind that nearly outwardly brag about their extreme warmth and comfort.  If these slippers could talk they'd certainly be superfluous in all they say.

What is it about foot comfort that is so satisfying?  Pedicures, foot baths, massages, warm socks, and old man slippers.  Not to mention pumice stones, toe separators, and minty lotions that stain your socks with their pungent odor.  Now, I don't take my foot comfort to the extreme; I prefer warm socks and slippers to a stranger poking and prodding my misformed toes anyday.  But, I still see the value in these tiny indulgences, little creature comforts as they are.

Personally, I am a foot destroyer.  I've figure skated since I was old enough to walk, I run barefoot on a pretty regular basis, and I have not once in my life had a pedicure.  The only extent to which vanity stretches to my toes is in the form of Barbie pink nail polish, applied mostly in order to create the illusion that my pinky toe is more than a misformed stub sans toenail.  Foot destruction aside, I still enjoy the warmth and comfort provided by my slippers.  They've held up for years.  They're indestructible, and in that way they're like my feet.  Tough and weathered, but still holding me strong.