Quasimodo

Today I woke up with serious and debilitating foot pain. It was so terrible that I was hardly able to walk. But I had no choice and had to get to work. I had to make my morning train. I was in a hurry (of course) and had to double time it to catch my train. As I hobbled along the sidewalk, limping and cringing with each painful step I was reminded of my good friend Quasimodo.

I am sure you’re familiar with the deformed bell ringer of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. (Why isn’t he the mascot for Notre Dame Football? A French named school with an Irish mascot?) I felt like the Charles Laughton version of Quasimodo, as I shuffled along trying to avoid any further foot discomfort. I almost felt like shouting, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”, as I climbed the ramp toward my train.  I’m sure the face I was making helped convey the whole Quasimodo look. My lips were snarled, my teeth were clenched and my left eye was squinting with each painful footfall.  

I’m sure at least three of you who read this will comment by saying, “Well go to the doctor then if it hurts so much”. And if it gets any worse I will, but you see, I am a man and won’t go to the doctor unless the foot is juuuust about to fall off. And that would only happen after the duct tape bandages had failed. So stow it.  Plus if I didn’t have that pain, what else would I write about? Happy trees and Disney flowers singing about how bright and sun shiny the glorious day was? Who’d read that? That’s lame. People like to read about pain.

Quasimodo wouldn’t be such a wonderful literary character without the immense pains he suffers. We wouldn’t care much for him if he was just, say a deaf bell ringer with Brad Pitt’s looks. We’d be like, “Damn, I hope that bell ringer falls”.

I digress however and return to my original point, my freaking feet. I thought it might have been the shoes but after buying new ones and still being in pain it must be something inside. I’m sure my alcohol intake and diet of microwave breakfast sandwiches isn’t helping either. But I refuse to accept the idea that my body can’t take care of itself and that I’m not as young as I used to be. I have to face the fact that my metabolism has slowed down considerably. It’s quite difficult to “check yourself before you wreck yourself”.

I also attribute my pains to the lack of any serious tender, loving care. Much like poor Quasimodo, I fall for every girl that wants nothing to do with me; or my pained feet. It’s not like I’m looking for a foot rub, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but it’d be nice to be in someone’s thoughts that way, as if they would consider giving me that foot rub because they care about me in that way and want to ease my self-pitying misery.

I hear bells.