Blisters as a Metaphor for my Soul

I have an owie.

You know that phrase about not judging someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes?

Well, I don’t recommend judging anyone and I sure as heck don’t recommend walking two miles in their flip flops…

Last week, my mom and I decided to walk down to Blockbuster to rent the latest disc of True Blood for a new one, a 1.96 mile round-trip walk. In my eagerness to see what sexy/violent/shocking scenes the writers had in store for Sookie Stackhouse (or, rather, in my eagerness to see Eric Northman without his shirt on again…) I decided not to take the time to hunt down a pair of clean socks and tie my sneakers, but rather to borrow my baby brother’s flip flops.

I haven’t been wearing flip-flops much this summer, so I don’t have the protective callouses built up between my big toe and my second toe. By the time I got home, I realized that not only did I have a huge blister, but the blister had actually popped and rubbed itself off, leaving exposed oozing red soreness underneath. Gross.

I decided pretending like I didn’t have an open wound on my foot would be the best way to deal with it. Maybe it is my southern roots, but I sometimes decide the best way to deal with a “problem” is not to talk about it or make a big deal about it and just wait for it to go away.

So, in the past week:

I went for my runs, cut them short and limped back home.

I walked outside barefoot and cried, several times over. I walked inside and cleaned the dirt and sand and grass out of my skin.

I forced myself to wash my foot with soap in the shower, even though it burned and I didn’t even want to take a shower anyway.

I hiked with my dog and my friend Jon and complained about it.

And I played with it and picked at it and generally did not leave it alone.

I suck at just letting myself heal. I scratch mosquito bites until they bleed, I pick scabs off over and over again until the skin underneath becomes a long-lasting pink scar, I pop blisters and zits and squeeze pus out of infections. I guess it is pretty nasty.

And I know it takes longer for me to heal, but as I said before, my self control sucks.

A lot of hardcore runners like using super glue on blisters. I don’t. Putting superglue on my skin just gives me even more to pick at. I’d end up ripping up more of my skin than using my “ignore the blister until it goes away” tactic.

My current owie is almost completely healed. It is not soft and sticky in the middle anymore – it is starting to have the hard protective shell we all form in life when a piece of us gets rubbed raw.

So, I’m going to stop writing. I’m going to run on it again today. Get up and push it again. Before the nasty sore on my foot becomes even more of a metaphor for my soul.

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3 responses to “Blisters as a Metaphor for my Soul

  1. OMGGGGGGGGGGGGG I so get this…my daughter does the picking , squeezing, scratching till your raw thing… I do the it didn’t happen and does not exist , denial all the way form…isn’t it interesting how we all have a different way of dealing with life… Yup this says it all : “it is starting to have the hard protective shell we all form in life when a piece of us gets rubbed raw.”…As always…XOXOXOXOXOXO

  2. Oh, what a fantastic story and metaphor, Maureen! Yes, there are certainly those habits we have that we don’t want the world to know about. I so appreciate your down-to-earth humor and ability to not take yourself so seriously. 🙂 Blessings!

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