My Feet Are Killing Me

This weekend I bought a crazy pair of sandals (pictured above) in Chinatown here in New York City. They have wooden pegs all over them that are strategically placed so as to hit all the pressure points in your feet (as dictated by Eastern medicine). I saw them as I was walking down Mott Street and it only took about five seconds of broken English from the guy who was selling them on the street to convince me to fork over ten bucks for a pair. Apparently most of the shoes like this available in Chinatown feature rubber pegs instead of wooden ones and are made in China. The pair I got, however, were made in Korea and- according to the guy who sold them to me anyway- kick the crap out of the Chinese ones. Also the pair I got came in two varieties- one with short wooden pegs and one with taller wooden pegs. The taller ones supposedly work better and faster. Given my all or nothing approach to life, I bought the ones with the taller pegs. Why fuck around? Am I right?

I was so excited about my new sandals that I put my tennis shoes in a plastic bag and threw on the sandals right away. The guy who sold them to me gave me a little chart that explained what each of the pegs would be doing to me as I walked. One sorts out your liver, one sorts out your intestines, one sorts out your brain, one sorts out your kidneys, and so on and so on. There was even a peg designed to hit the pressure point on your foot directly related to the “sexual gland,” which in my case I am assuming is the penis/balls region. This is the area is located pretty much in the center of the heel of your foot. Try massaging it right now and see what happens. Just don’t go blaming me if all of sudden you go getting all frisky or something. I do not need the hassle.

Anyway, as you can probably guess by looking at the photo above, the sandals weren’t too easy to walk in. They instantly make you walk as if you’ve just escaped from intensive care or something. They’re weren’t too painful at first, but after a couple of blocks, wearing them starts to feel like some sort of rare form of torture. After about four blocks I had to take them off and put my tennis shoes back on, which felt really great.

I’ve tried to wear the sandals a few more times around the house this weekend, but they’re pretty unbearable. Still, I’m hoping walking just a few feet in them will solve most of my problems. If nothing else, they could make for interesting conversation if I wear them when guests come over. “Oh, these?,” I’ll say. “Well, it’s an interesting story actually.” And then I will repeat everything I have just written above and whoever is over my apartment will be really glad to have me as a friend because they just never know what kind of crazy shit I am going to break out on them next.

Dave Hill