At The End of My Legs There Is Meat

My Feet Say: Thank you, mama, for letting us wear socks & sandals today, following yesterday's marathon torture extravaganza wherein you trapped us in high heels from 8:00 AM to nearly Midnight.
Sure, those shoes didn't hurt us when you wore them in that Theatre@First show, but you had them on us for a grand total of 15 minutes a night then, not sixteen straight hours. To be honest, we thought you'd learned years ago to bring comfy shoes to wear at work while saving the Cruel Shoes for whatever the comparatively brief main event is. You really did a number on us. The right hip hurts today too, but hips can't type because they don't have any toes.

Don't get us wrong, Wicked was awesome, and from down here we squeed at how beowabbit bought you that beautiful commemorative photo program. And in Chinatown after the show, when we hurt so badly on the cobblestones, it was really funny when beowabbit tried to give you a piggyback ride while you were wearing your heavy purse, your totebag, and his big backpack. You two looked like a pair of drunks brawling, except laughing and brawling. OMFG hilarious and cute.

But those shoes! We feet are not meant to balance for hours upon end with your full body weight supported by about 4 square inches of our surface area. As a reminder, and to hopefully ensure that you're not going to do this to us again, today is Walk Like A Pirate Day for you, as a pirate with two peglegs. Now put us back on the floor and get some work done already.