It happened this week. My feet got older and bigger. I went to my favorite local running shoe store (still love Linda, George and all the gang at Tri Bike Run, even after this), and found out that there’s no way around it. I am now a double-digit shoe size.
Turns out this is not unusual: our feet gain as much as a size every decade after age 40. The tendons and ligaments lose elasticity, lowering the arches and flattening the feet. For the record, I’ve always had flat feet, so how much lower can they possibly go? Am I looking at the possibility of rolling along on concave arches? And if I live to 100, I would be a size 14 foot. That’s NBA player territory, house-building material, floorboards for the Ark. How do I stop this? Do I sit down for the rest of my life, risking a heart attack and growing to the size of an office building, but preventing further foot growth? Do I engage in the ancient Chinese ritual of foot binding, an excruciatingly painful practice involving the breaking of toes and wrapping them to create the small feet deemed desirable and beautiful? No option is a good one, but the idea of showing up at a race among all those prettily shod feminine feet, clad in their racing flats of fluorescent pink, yellow, green, orange, white and lavender makes a person want to start way in the back of the pack and stay there.
Getting older is inevitable, but I hoped I would outrun the signs of aging for awhile. Not this one. So if anyone doubts the existence of Bigfeet, they need only catch a glimpse of my closet, where my size 10 Brooks reside. Unless of course, I am out running. Then just listen for the pitter-patter of some not-so-tiny feet behind you.