As a kid, I was always amazed at my dad’s feet, of all things. They were flat as a board, without a hint of an arch. I used to call them sleds. I think my dad preferred the more poetic term, “fallen arches” but that always made me think of a building falling apart.
Anyways, as far as I know, Dad always had flat feet. He had to wear special inserts in his shoes. Unfortunately, he always had jobs where he stood on his feet a lot, which can lead to more discomfort than normal in people with flat feet. Still, he loved to walk, and walk fast, so his impediment didn’t seem to bother him much.
I inherited my dad’s long feet, but not his fallen arches. As a small child, I loved having my feet massaged. My mom would rub baby oil on my feet while she massaged my toes and I would squeal with delight. It’s one of those places in childhood you wouldn’t mind returning to on a stressful day.