A Farmers Feet Was there a chance when you took a good look, a very good look, of that part

of your body that carries the whole of it? And if by chance (Im sure of the many chances) you did, did you sigh with appreciation (Im betting a number of nods here) or grimace with disgust (oh, cmon! Im alone?) You read it right, disgust, in BOLD letters. I see some of you now laughing while others are giving me that puppy face saying Oh, you poor one. I know, I know, it might be a horrible thing to write it here. Not to mention that I might have broken some unknown covenant that preaches about not saying anything horrid when it comes to your body. But what am I supposed to say? Oh, geez! What a lovely sight I see. Could I love more than this pair of Cinderella feet? Hello?! I would be fooling myself if I would say so. Because, in reality, I just dont have those feet that could launch a thousand pedicures. I only go for pedicures on occasions. And by occasions, I mean, twice or thrice an annum on my birthday (I want to feel like a princess) and on other special events, like (thinkingthinkingthinking) like there are many, as if I could not count them. Yeah, right. Just last year, when I decided to pamper myself on the day before my birthday, I went to this salon, which I am a patron. I normally go there to have my hair cut, and on some very, very, very few occasions I will have my pedicure (I can hear angels singing). I have in there someone who does my feet every time a miracle happens. And just like anybody, I dont want my feet to be touched by anyone except my trusted pedicurist (as if I have the feet of Cleopatra). Well, I have reasons. First, if I am satisfied with the job, I will have her. Second, I have some specific quirks about my feet. Third, the most important, I dont like my feet likened to a treasure tomb dig by an overzealous pedicurist. You get what I mean? So, there I was comfortably taking my place on a couch. I like the place, I tell you, it is not pomp nor cheap a middle class salon. It suits me well. Anyways, so I asked for Jane (shes the one), a diminutive girl with a sweet smile. I like her. She came to approach me; she said Same lang japon Mam? (are we doing it the same Maam?). I said yes with please (Im always polite). As she prepared her trades gadgets she inspected my feet. I was about to tell her I know Jane. I just kept my mum to refrain myself from being embarrassed. You see, I always feel embarrassed when someone does what she did to my feet, inspecting. I had this student once who made a gross remark about these pair. I was confidently wearing my flip-flops one fine Friday morning (we dont hold classes on Fridays). When she saw me, she made a heart fattening comment on how cool I look with my laidback attire. And then suddenly her eyes where drawn down under to my feet! And she said Waaa, Mam mao na imong tiil? Tiil bana ug maestra?! (Whoaa! Maam is that your feet? Are those of a teacher?) Arrggghh!! It could have been so perfect. So as not to further my shame, I just went with the moment. I said, Yeah, thats minenobody elses. I gave my student a half grin (the only thing I could muster) but deep inside my heart bledsob. I was brought to present day when I heard Jane said something about my toenails. Mam okay na gud imo kuko. (Maam your nails are fine now.) What? Did I hear it right? Why, what happened to my nails? Not again. Diay Jane, ngano, unsa diay akong kuko before. (really Jane, why, whats wrong with my nails before?) I just prepared myself for the final blow. Gibang man gud imong kuko tung una Mam. (they were a bit crooked before Maam.) BAM! There goes my selfconfidence. That comment simply cemented the fact that indeed I have a farmers feet. At one time my father told me that I be needing the help of a shoemaker once my feet grows. And it would not be any longer. Could that be more specific?

Yeah, I really have big feet, of course not as big as those of the fabled Big Foot. But it is unladylike. It doesnt sit on my slippers like the way it does with others, femininely, it literally squats. And the toes, you should see my toes. They look like little lollipops! Imagine those candies with slender sticks that hold the round confections? It looks just like that with nails in uneven cut. I have this habit of snipping nails without direction. My only goal when I have my nail cutter is to get rid of the excesses. I dont file. What can I do, Im a low maintenance type of gal. I only wear sexy stilettos at nightly gatherings. People sometimes dont bother looking at your feet when in your gown or in a skin tight jeans during these occasions. They would most likely rave on your dress, your baubles, or your make-ups. On how fabulous your looks are or how hot you are while strutting in your tight ass skinny. They dont look at your feet, this is not Hollywood. In case, if I really need to use those strappy heels, I do my trusted old time trick, brushing my feet all the way down squeaky clean. Besides, only gays would make a particular interest on your nail polish, if it matches to your shoe color. So Im safe. And on regular days, I stay in the comfort of my pump heels, ballerina shoes, and, an occasional flip-flop (just to have the feeling). And there, I went on apologizing Jane by giving her a difficult task the last time I went on my salon trip. I told her that I do have less manageable feet. The reason are, maybe, apart from its extra size I also love to garden. When I am in my little flower and tree garden I just do what I love to do gardening. I do gardening, the Filipino style. I dont do Martha Stewart. I dont wear gloves, and I do away with boots. I dislike the feeling of uneasiness with all those coverings. I love to get myself dirty. I love the feel of the earth, the smell of it. I love knowing that when I dig the soil, place my sampling unto its bottom, cover it and touch its mound, I can grow a living thing. I see the magnificent miracle of creation right before my eyes when I see my planted tree push a new sprout out. I caress my plants. I talk to them. And I enjoy these sans the gloves and the boots. Well, there you go. Ive got a farmers feet. I even have callous hands with unpolished fingernails. But, you see, even if I said that I look at it grimacing, they are still my feet. They travelled with me from General Santos to Cebu to Bohol to Cagayan de Oro to Tacurong to Koronadal and to where I am right now, Davao City. They are with me when I took my first jump in luksong tinik. They are with me when I have to walk my way to school in high school. They are with me when I run like a mad dog (together with my gang of friends) from Gemma building to H building, trying to catch my Economics class. They are with me when I joined rallies and demonstration in my younger years of being idealistic. They are with me when I took my first step as a teacher inside a cozy room in Lourdes College. And they are with to walk the aisle to marry my one true love. And for these, I owe them a lot. I thank them for carrying me when I dropped to 45 kilos and ballooned to 56 kilos. I thank them for the patience they have to endure being propped on heels in long periods because their owner just wants to feel vampy. I thank them for keeping me company in my out of the blue travels. I thank them for letting me try my first climb. And I thank them for keeping on me in my search for my niche in this big, big world. I may not be have the prettiest feet (I do envy some), but Ive got the best one. You know why, I never heard them complaining, for all the things that I have done to them, not once. And so this I say, from this time on, I shall, always, be grateful to God for giving me my feet. I will have my foot spasoon. (read it in whisper) Oh, hey, I got my green thumb from my father which I believed he got from his mother, my Lola Tating. Till next!