I've got the PF. Plantar Facsiitis. I can no longer run. I mean, sure I could run if something was chasing me - or if a building was on fire - but I'd pay for it later. I'd get up the next day, attempt to stand on both feet and then collapse to the floor when the heel of my left foot gave out. Just the left foot. MY left foot. And unlike Christy Brown or Daniel Day Lewis, I have nothing to show for my left foot. I sure as shit can't paint or write with it.
I haven't injured my left heel. It's not like a car ran over my heel and my body is still processing. This ailment is just from arriving into middle age. You run when you're a kid and you can run forever; you laugh as you gallop, skip, sprint... You run in middle age and apparently you're pretty much fucked. I ran to catch up in the parade last weekend and now I'm limping like hamstrung giraffe.
Do a quick poll of women of a certain age and you'll be amazed at how many also suffer from PF. It's an epidemic of failing foot ligaments.
You might say, off the cuff, "My heel's been giving me grief."
Six women over the age of 40 will turn to you. "Plantar Fasciitis," they will nod, commiserate and suggest exercises.
If they're really good friends they'll get you in to see the hot physiotherapist. You know, 'cause a cheap little thrill at our age makes one's day brighter. Although if I were to do that, I'd have to pluck my toe hair, paint my nails and pretend I don't have hammer toes. That seems like WAY too much work. So much easier to simply inform the poor schmuck who's caring for your feet that it's coming up to winter and what lies under your socks ain't gonna be pretty. Unless the physiotherapist is REALLY, REALLY hot... And then, I mean, come on... I defy any person not to take an interest in their pedal appearance if they have someone of Matthew Goode's or Scarlett Johanssen's ilk touching their little piggies. Tough call.