Blisters On The …

23 Jan

This post may contain content and language some may consider offensive. Get a life!

Feet on Fire

Feet on Fire

Have you ever had one of those cringe-worthy moments that you wish you could forget but pop up unexpectedly? Read on.

The trigger was recently having to sleep in a top – wait for it – bunk. Don’t ask why I was doing this but I was. The ladder to climb up had small metal rungs that were quite painful on the soles and balls of the feet.

Flasback. The scene: the early ’80s; a conference in St. John’s, Newfoundland, in an old convent that had been converted into a hospital/nursing school; last night of the conference with a dance in the gym.

In those days I used to kick off my shoes to dance. Better foot action. Lordy I was good! The music was loud and fast. My feet were like lightning. After about an hour my feet felt like they had been hit by lightning: hot and tender and blistering.

Sister Pius Condemnata

Sister Pius Condemnata

Slowly I hobbled off the dance floor and almost crawled to the nun, Sister Pius Condemnata, sitting at the hospital reception. She looked at me as though I had just come from some satanic orgy. I started to say, “I have blisters on the balls of my feet.” She immediately shrieked, “You have blisters on the balls?” and then in an octave and 20 decibels higher, “He has blisters on the balls!” Like ninjas a half dozen student nurses appeared out of the shadows chanting, “Blisters on the balls, blisters on the balls …!” The next thing I knew I was thrown onto a gurney, eager female hands pulling at my belt and slacks. What a male fantasy! “No, no,” I eventually and feebly protested, “It’s my feet, the balls of my feet.” Instantly those grasping, exploring hands bounced back like I was some Ebola patient. “Oh!” and “Eeuw!” became the new chant. The angels quickly became white ghosts and disappeared into the shadows from whence they had come. I was there alone on the gurney in the middle of reception feet still burning. Out of the shadows came a hunched, black-cloaked form, Sister Geriatrica Extrema, with her potions and bandages muttering in Latin, or maybe Newfoundland-speak, “Next time, Bozo, wear shoes when dancing.”

It’s amazing what climbing up a ladder into a top bunk can dredge up. I can remember every detail of that time over 30 years ago. Now, if only I could remember what I had for breakfast this morning?


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