Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. It is the sound the SJG makes. All day long. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. It is the sound of my fashion-backwards footwear shlepping across the floor. It is the plaintive cry of my arch-supporting, old lady orthotic inserts, unhappily cohabitating with the cross trainers I've been sentenced to slip onto my swollen, messed-up feet. All those pretty pumps I've bought, thinking I could wear them comfortably for an hour or two? Ha. Banished to my closet in shame. All those ankle boots that make my legs look a tad longer? Ha ha. Adios, bitches. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. It is the sound of my left heel-related tsuris. My new podiatrist had much to say about my current condition: Heel spur. Plantar fasciitis. Bursitis. The SJG doesn't like these words. What's to like? These are the words of pain courtesy of trying to stay healthy and fit. That's what the SJG gets for being active. Better I should sit like a lump on the sofa in the dark. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. It is the sound of the SJG makes. All day long.
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