On my way to putting best feet forward

I started off the new year making an attempt to put my best foot forward.

Make that my best feet.

You know you’re getting older when the Christmas gifts you get are either very practical things you’ll use or things it probably wouldn’t hurt you to have, but you’re way too cheap to open your wallet and let the moths out for a little fresh air so you can make such a purchase as that.

So I get this foot treatment kit as a present — and no, it wasn’t from Better Half. We didn’t buy gifts for each other this year, because we were worried about the well being of our wallet moths. After all, the poor things don’t have winter coats.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised I got this foot kit. I should even be happy about it, delighted somebody paid attention to my ongoing laments and complaints about how rough my feet are, what can I do, nothing works, boo-hoo-hoo.

I’m always whining and apologizing about how awful my feet are, and no matter how hard I try to soften them up, they still make sandpaper seem like a sheet of silk.

I’ve made a mess of hose thanks to my course heels — serious snag city here — and rough-skinned feet aren’t exactly romantic.

If I playfully rubbed my feet against Better Half’s ankles, he’d need immediate medical attention.

Help, my husband’s bleeding!

I read the directions with some distress, because directions are never simple. Nothing is ever two or three simple steps.

It’s four or five or 30.

The Readers Digest version of them, Kiaski translation — park yourself on the couch, put on these booties filled with some kind of medicinal goo for lack of a better explanation and sit still for 60 minutes.

Relax. Enjoy this excuse to do nothing for an hour except prop your feet up and ask people to fetch things for you because you can’t.

After 60 minutes, wash your feet and resume whatever constitutes your normal activity. In a week or so, the yucky skin starts falling off. Lots of it. Don’t be alarmed.

This part made me laugh because I pictured myself walking around and then I feel something foreign in my shoes, like a rock or something that doesn’t belong there, but no, surprise, it’s clumps of dead skin. Creepy.

My biggest fear is that I might go down two or three shoe sizes.

Well I wore the gooey booties, enjoyed the hour vacation, sitting on the couch with my feet propped up, and when it was over, I thought my feet felt better, and they smelled better, too.

Two points for the home team.

Sure enough, about a week after the foot session, I started to see results.

I texted my daughter, the gift giver, with the good news: “I’m shedding! I’m shedding!”

She was happy, too, if only for the health of her father’s ankles.

Sandal season is going to be great this year.

In a celebratory mood, I suggested to my daughter that we go eat, my treat.

I think it’s high time the moths got a little exercise.

(Kiaski, a resident of Richmond, is a staff columnist and community editor for the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times. She can be contacted at jkiaski@heraldstaronline.com.)