I have a gripe.

I know, that’s nothing new, right? But humour me. Also, the saying “that really gives me the gripes” is rooted in slang for sharp intestinal pain usually associated with irritable bowel syndrome. I know this because we looked it up at my first real newspaper job. My boss said it often and it soon rubbed off on the rest of us. Once we whipped out the dictionary though, there was a noticeable decline in the frequency of its use. So up there when I said that I had a gripe, I meant the figurative gripe. Because apparently revealing information about your bowel movements to strangers is off putting. Go figure.

Anyway, I was lost in my own thoughts today when I realised that I had been quietly engaged about something for a good few weeks now. I figured I should probably turn it into a professional showcase of my skills (ahahahahaha haha hah… professional) before I incoherently ramble it to a stranger at the pub or, failing that, it emulsifies itself into a burning ulcer of repressed anger in the pit of my stomach.

In my head, big ideas were brewing. I was thinking I could do some kind of regular themed posts about me complaining and call it something along the lines of “yeah but why?” or “things that shit me to tears”. I mean, I could launch a segment based purely on ranting, but that would require me to then create content that isn’t based on my dissatisfaction with something and that’s basically all I’ve got.

Maybe I should just revive my “yeah nah; nah yeah” segments, because then that at least forces me to find something vaguely positive out of a rancid onion of a situation.

But before I make any big decisions, I might just launch into “what shits me to tears” for the moment. And that thing, currently, is this idea that women want to have soft feet.

There are all these ads in women’s magazines and infomercials about pumice stone innovations that marry traditional methods with technological advances to give people foot skin like a baby’s bottom. They try to convince you to scrub off years of built-up, tough skin just so you can caress your heels without starting a friction fire. Sure it feels nice, but it’s bloody bullshit.

Because unless you’re living the kind of hippie luxe existence those moisturiser ads would have us believe Jennifer Anniston is living, you can’t really get by without wearing shoes. Because you are not Jennifer Anniston; there will be times when you have to use a dank public toilet with unexplained puddles. There will be times when you need to leg it across hot bitumen to get to the bottle-o. And you’re never going to escape traipsing over a batch of bindis. You’re going to need to wear shoes at some point of your life.

And if you’ve got baby arse skin on your feet, those shoes are going to give you hectic bloody blisters. “Bloody” is not me proving to you how Aussie I am with stereotypical slang (well not in this instance, but please note how Australian I am every other time I’ve inserted local lingo into my pieces because boganism is trending still and I need to build up a fan base). Your blisters would bleed.

Maybe this is just me waving the feminist flag again (it is a pale pink and has Zena the Warrior Princess complete with breast plates emblazoned on it) but there’s this weird idea that women should have perfectly smooth feet, when there’s no similar call to men. I find this odd, because women are also supposed to be way more obsessed with shoes than men (I do enjoy snazzy footwear but that’s not the point here). And the kind of shoes women are supposed to go bonkers over often give you fuck off blisters.

That tough, crackling skin we’re supposed to get rid of is exactly the kind of skin that should protect your feet from blisters. And it’s a beautiful thing. Because the foot has built up a harsh outer shell as a result of exposure to the outside world as a protective mechanism so you don’t get slowed down by bullshit – that’s something we should aim to emulate for our entire beings, not flake off with bits of coral.

My big point? Why isn’t there a buffer than can rough up your feet? That’s what I would go out and buy. Because I don’t really need soft ankles, but I would like to be able to wear a pair of shoes without stashing a pair of socks, emergency thongs and several bandaids in my bag. Innovate a way to apply spot callouses on my feet so I can’t feel the shoes rubbing up against my skin, allowing me to spend more time focusing on burning the patriarchy or perfecting my pumpkin scones. I’d happily part with 20 bucks for that kind of freedom.

And yeah, maybe this rant came from a place of deep frustration over how a simple pair of flats could render me basically immobile and the disgust that came from developing blisters inside my blisters after stepping up my jogging, but I think there’s something in this. I’m not saying I don’t love the feeling of a nice soft foot, but having nice soft feet only work if you’re living some magical existence where you only ever wear thongs, slippers or spend your days barefoot in your spacious home office surrounded by lush gardens.

Otherwise, you end up limping to work in your corporate shoes or resort to wearing your old comfy jazz shoes every day despite the fact their soles are millimetres from having holes ground into them. Of course I’m going with the latter option, but there’s only so long I can pull of the “corporate novelty” look before I start looking like an overly-involved art teacher.

Things need to change.