I hate feet. Honestly, they really freak me out. They’re like hands, but worse. I’ve done a lot of pondering about where this disdain stems from, and I think it’s because feet seem fundamentally dirty. Especially in college dorms, where everyone is (hopefully) wearing shower shoes, I question how frequently people wash their feet. Be honest with yourself: how often do you actually give your feet a thorough cleaning? That’s what I thought.
I am, however, a huge proponent of socks. If we must have feet, socks are the closest thing to a remedy. Use them!! Please!! Even in the privacy of my dorm, you will never find me sans socks. It doesn’t matter what kind of socks; I’m not picky. The only thing that matters is that my feet are shielded from the world.
But I’ve been feeling like a hypocrite lately. Dear readers of the Herald, I have a confession to make: lately, I’ve started sleeping without socks.
Let me explain myself. A few weeks ago, I broke my ankle at FUNZ trampoline park. If hobbling out of the facility’s foam pit with an ankle the size of a very, very purple golf ball wasn’t embarrassing enough, I now have the pleasure of hobbling around Yale’s campus with an enormous medical boot fastened around my right ankle—a physical reminder of my fond memories at FUNZ. Beyond announcing my presence with a persistent squeaking noise whenever I walk around a quiet library, another unfortunate consequence of the boot is that it does not fare well in warm weather. Don’t get me wrong: I love sunny days on Cross Campus, but my broken ankle doesn’t. Trapped in its inflatable prison, it gets sweaty and hot and overall very uncomfortable. And so, to give my foot a reprieve from this confinement, I have started taking my socks off along with my boot when I get back to my room.
At first, I thought it would be a one-time thing. Last Tuesday, I was out enjoying the beautiful weather all day, and by the time I returned to Trumbull, I had been wearing the boot for upwards of 12 hours. After changing into pajamas, I decided to let my foot breathe for a few minutes. That was my first mistake. Taking off my socks was my version of eating from the Tree of Knowledge. I’d unlocked a new world! I was astonished at how freeing it was! Against my better judgment, I climbed into bed without putting socks on and fell asleep within minutes.
I would be lying if I said I’m not ashamed of my behavior. I used to fiercely judge those who subjected their clean sheets to the horrors of bare feet. But, honestly, there’s something about not feeling confined. Maybe this is what dogs (the real kind) feel like when they run without a leash.
Some of my friends feel similarly. Wineth De Zoysa, SM ’26, said, “In America people make such a big deal about feet, whereas back home in Sri Lanka, everyone wears flip flops and sandals and nobody gives a fuck.”
But others remain steadfast in their hatred. Lu Arie, BF ’26, revealed that she has feared feet since age eleven. “I know where it all began,” she told the Herald. “I had a friend who said that she hated her feet so much that she never touched them. I remember thinking ‘That’s really smart, I should try that,’ and I’ve never touched my feet since.” Still, Arie acknowledges that every person must make the choice for themselves whether or not to flaunt their feet. “I think everyone cares too much. If your feet are clean, I don’t mind seeing them out,” she stated.
As for my opinion? I still think feet are nasty. I don’t want them anywhere near me. That being said, I am starting to sympathize with the Birkenstock-wearers on this campus. I understand your cause. Maybe we’re not so different, after all.
