January 25, 2006
Staying one step ahead of fetid feet
By
Herald Editor
It's hard to put one's best foot forward when your size tens equally reek. Life isn't fair when you suffer from chronic foot funk - it plain stinks.
Everyday I soap, spray and powder from heel to all ten toes. I even hit the little roast beef-eating piggy twice. Unfortunately, my feet could find a way to break a sweat inside flip-flops in February.
So I hide my offensive feet between a layer of polypropylene sock and nubuck upper shoe. However, it's hard to conceal a smell that swallows Odor Eaters whole and makes Dr. Scholl's regret taking the Hippocratic oath. It seems that I'm destined to wander the earth with the other damned insoles.
In fact, just the other day my three-year-old daughter - who is heavily into bodily functions and assorted smells - gave my socks the sniff test. Her reaction was a bit perplexing, since most people fail to find foot odor funny. I think her exact words were "mmm ... your feet smell like cheese" followed by innocent laughter.
All I can think of is that her day care has been serving Limburger again.
Soured milk curds aside, there is nothing worse than trying to stay one step ahead of a fetid foot.
Of course there was a time when I could have cared less about the offending odor of stinky shoes. As a kid, I'm sure my Keds could have sat up on their own in gym class - not to mention run laps around me. After all, what six-year-old can resist the siren call of playground mud puddles and liverwurst on the lunchroom floor.
Then came the cruel fate known as junior high school. A world of hormones, bad hair days and algebra. While I hated mathematics, my feet were a greater abomination. Like other teenagers, I barricaded myself in the bedroom for hours. However, I didn't console my angst in sex, drugs or rock 'n' roll - just medicated foot powder.
Thankfully college dorm life brought so many questionable smells that my feet fit right in.
Today I take a much more mature approach to shoe smell. I systematically stack my shoes in the hall closet by level of offending odor. My zappotos range from Sunday-go-to-church-slight-hint-of-soles-soak-in-Old Spice to "dear God what died in here!" garage clod hoppers. Like most men, my footwear choices are the black or brown dress shoes, tennis shoes for anything but, and hikers pulled out of the trash 15 times since 1998.
Oh, there was that pair of Doc Martens in the 80s, but I pretend that never happened.
Perhaps that has been my problem - foot odor denial. For years I've tried to cover my tracks with aerosol cans and powders. However, you can only put so much lipstick on a pig or Right Guard on a big toe.
Starting today I'm putting my best size tens forward - or maybe my worst - so I wouldn't stand downwind.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or email gleiva@gtherald.com