Weightless We start at perfection and then we get better!

shouted our visual director, Adam, who was always wearing sunglasses, most likely, I thought, so we would never know where he was looking. We were repeating yet another set of 8 to 5s, backwards in a slide. It was beginning to look questionable out. Clouds, heavy puffs of grey, seeming to sag under a heavy load, were rolling in, threatening a downpour, and a shadow had long since fallen across the parking lot on which we were marching. This was a tremendous relief to me. Going inside meant we would work on music, rather than drills. Adams words were not new ones, though they also werent getting any more encouraging. I struggled to keep up, as I always did, trying not to fall and disrupt my entire line, toes up, legs straight, dressing down, stiff as a soldier. I was heavy, weighed down, anchored. Finally, it began to rain, the water drifting down in freezing sheets over us, and we were forced to go in. After all, we wouldnt want the instruments or props to get damaged. I let out a long sigh as we all rushed to get our things and hurry inside, a chaotic scramble of over 200 people trying not to crash into one another. As I walked, my feet cried out in pain, seeming to want to collapse in on themselves, yearning to rest, to sit, if even for just a few moments. But, no. There was little to no sitting in marching band, if it could be helped. Per usual, when I climbed in the familiar, safeeven wonderful, in my mindseat of my mothers minivan, I was beat down and ready to collapse. Already, I was worrying about the next days practice when the rain wouldnt come as my savior. I wanted to quit. I wanted to quit from my shaking forearms, to my calloused fingers, to the splints in my shins, down to my throbbing feet. I dreaded the practices, loathed the competitions, and had incredible anxiety about the whole activity. Marching band hurt, physically, a great deal, and in one place in particular. There they were, residing in my beat-up, dirty, wet, worn-down Adidas sneakers. My feet. Not only did I have to wear a cloth, elastic band around them to support my complete lack of an arch, but I could also only wear certain shoe brands, that would help to lessen how much they hurt. I suffered throughout the

day with regular movements like walking as well and though my mom brought home an exotic variety of strange creams and soaps, nothing helped quell the pain. It had been a long time since I played an actual sport and by then I had given up the hope of being athletic or even somewhat competent on a field, on a team. All the other kids could, it seemed, but I could not. I could not. Having no sense of balance was a large part of my problem. My feet couldnt seem to hold onto the ground well enough. I didnt see why not. They were certainly large enough. Was I too heavy? Probably. Had I missed some special lecture on being able to stand on one foot for more than two seconds? Ah, a conspiracy! Did the universe dislike me and enjoyed blowing wind on me so that I would fall over for its amusement? I wouldnt doubt it. I didnt have a foot to stand on. In fact, I didnt have either. When I ran, my feet would ache, and cramp, and cry. They caught on seemingly nothing, sending me stumbling forward. I would be walking along and a stinging pain would shoot up my ankle into my leg, forcing me to begin to limp. They also were possibly the most terrible things shop for as nothing fit them. They were wide, but not wide, they only didnt hurt in certain brands, and they puzzled shoe sellers everywhere, not to mention doctors: Those are the flattest feet Ive ever seen! is a phrase Ive heard one too many times. It was just one of those obvious things people love to point out. This wasnt all for no reason, of course. My feet were strange since the day I was born. So strange, in fact, that I was advised against doing ballet for fear of injuring them further. Odd, considering marching band was more or less ballet while simultaneously playing an instrument and staying in a formation two hundred people strong, and I was never advised against that. My feet are, in fact, pretty darn flat. Flat like the midwest. Fitting, I

suppose. I have little to no arch in either foot. They curve in as well, such that I walk on the insides of them, in a rather contorted manner. David, another band assistant, had to pull me aside once, and asked me if I knew I stuck my feet out when I walked. Like a duck, I thought, he means. Yes, I said, simply, and he was shocked. I was very aware. Constantly needing extra help wasnt new to me. Maybe that was why sports were never my forte: just like when I ran, I could never keep up. No, it was no surprise at all. But why my feet? There wasnt a history of foot problems in the family. Sure, everyone was always saying I had the Lester feet but everyone else seemed fine. Then again, people dont generally like talking about feet. We keep them contained within shoes, socks, slippers. Some people hate the look of them, even. For the longest time, I hated toes. What were they doing there? They just stuck out, strange and awkward. People take off their shoes to be comfortable, to show they feel at home, I have noticed. That was strange. What was so weird about feet? They were just another body part. My mother once told me a story, when we were still trying our hardest to fix my feet with inserts in my shoes and visits to the podiatrist, as if they could be remolded like clay, about her own feet. I used to walk like you, she said. (She meant with her feet sticking out to the sides.)So, when I walked home from school, every day I would make sure I walked with my feet tucked in so I could learn to walk normally. This story confused me. Was there something so wrong with the way I walked that I needed to work so hard to fix it? Would I have to have surgery to make my feet normal if I couldnt do it myself? Doing it all was a burden to me. My inserts didnt fit in many of the shoes that I wanted to wear, even if I did get to put my feet in a squishy clay-like substance to get new molds of them. The doctors appointments were tedious and I couldnt see any progress. Did it really matter all that much?

As a Christian, I went to Sunday school fairly often and sometimes we would talk about feet. One thing that Jesus did, we were told, that was surprising to the other people at the time, was wash others feet. The feet of women, lepers, nonbelieverseven though everyone else wondered why he would do such a thing, as feet were considered to be dirty things, he washed them. What was so wrong with feet? I couldnt seem to riddle it out. As I got older and we gave up on fixing my feet with inserts and the like, they began to cause problems for me in gym and just day to day. They werent something I could help being on though. You could try not to move a shoulder, or fingers, but you cant not use your feet. If you break a toe, theres nothing you can do to help it. You cant even stretch them very well. I was stuck with my feet. It seemed to me that they were just a fact of l ife. In all actuality, feet are rather fascinating. A quarter of an adults bones are in their feet. They also contain 250,000 sweat glands, which would explain the smell. The average human walks 115,000 miles in their life timethats four times around the world. For all their strangeness, feet sure do a lot of work. When people think of the most sensitive part of their body, I expect most would imagine their hands or their face. But what about the feet? There are 100,000 to 200,000 nerve receptors in the sole of each foot alone. Though it doesnt seem like it, feet feel things. That, I can say from experience. My mother once showed me the remake of a movie she liked to see if it was any good and the opening song became inexplicably stuck in my head for several days afterward. I would about dash the house, sliding in my socks, with, Oh you gotta cut loose, footloose, kick off your Sunday shoes playing on eternal repeat through my mind. And I couldnt help but feel that maybe the singer was onto something. Throughout my life, above anything else, my feet have caused me the most trouble, the most pain, the most effort, money, and time. Just this year as I was walking up to introduce myself in front of my history class in a rare spurt of confidence, I tripped quite spectacularly over some poor persons backpack and went flying to the ground. Quite the first impression. I have a feeling that if I were ever to fall down a flight of stairs, I would immediately get up afterwards and keep walking, as Ive gotten so used to falling over. I have deep set fear that,

for whatever reason, someday I will be pulled over by a police officer and forced to walk a line, and that I will fail this test so miserably that I will be promptly handcuffed and thrown into jail. I still dont think my concern is entirely ungrounded. Ive gone through many an average day with my feet aching like Id run a marathon. They have probably kept me from joining teams I may have otherwise joined, from making friends I may have otherwise made, had I the chance. But also, because of this, because of their innate ability to feel, I believe they hold countless memories. Mine hold memories of scalding sand on a beach in Florida, memories of trucking up Diamondhead crater in Hawaii, in the rain, in my Converse of all things, memories of rubbing my dogs tummy when she was still just a puppy. Memories of hotel carpets as I sprinted to the elevator, trying to get there before my brother to be the one to push the button, memories of so many different floorsthose of my various homes, of my grandparents, of my friends, memories of the slimy tile of indoor waterparks and pool changing rooms. Dirt, and sun, and grass, and water, and concrete, and woodchips, and tracks, feeling my weight press down on them, carrying me, imbedding within them millions of these tiny details of where Ive been, what Ive done. I often have to be strong to deal with my feets abnormalities, or as strong as I can be, because Ive found that there isnt a lot I can do about them. They are constant, they are stationary, and yet theyve been so many places, done so many things, even if most of them just include walking around school or pressing up against back of my dads seat on a car trip. Recently, Ive realized that finding constants in life isnt so easy and that holding onto them can be the only thing that keeps you from flying away. It took until semi-state in our marching band season for me to feel as though Id really accomplished something, that Id finally done all I could and put on a good show. None of us had known if wed even make it to state that year, so wed put our all into what could have been our final performance. When we marched off the field, even though my feet were on fire, even though they hurt as much as usual, for once, I didnt feel so bad. I had pushed through it and done my best. I hadnt quit. I had done it, through everything and, for once, I was proud.

We went on toward the end of the day and thus we were to be called for our placing at the very end of the announcements. I remember in those moments nothing but a frozen silence followed by an eruption of sound as two hundred tired, worn kids and their parents leapt to their feet in a single roar of celebration and accomplishment as though we could all take off together, into the sky. Back at the buses, everyone was in a buzz, talking and hugging and cheering and chanting. I crunched through the leaves, my feet still throbbing from the earlier performance. It definitely wasnt a day Id soon forget. When I reached the others, I met up with a friend who, to my surprise, picked me up and lifted me into the air without warning, taking the weight off of my tired feet for just a few seconds. I appreciated the gesture, but later, I realized that I didnt need anyone or anything to help hold me up anymore. On my own two feet, I was weightless.

Works Cited Chronological Life Applications Study Bible. Illinois: Carol Stream, 2012. Print. Foot Facts. Foot.com. Aetrex Worldwide Inc. Web. 18 January 2013. Howell, Daniel. Foot Anatomy 101-Biofeedback. The Barefoot Professor. 1 April 2011. Web. 18 January 2013. Loggins, Kenny. Footloose. By Dean Pitchford. Footloose Soundtrack. 1984. CD.