I was staring at my naked feet the other day.
For one thing, well into middle-age and far too many pizzas, this is the only part of my body I can ponder in that status and not get all weepy. More, though, my unadulterated feet are indeed the least adult part of me, and symbolize why I moved here in the first place: The beach.
Always the beach.
Beaches and feet serve no greater mutual purpose than to come together, and none more perfect than when said feet are naked. For it is in this manner that toes can play independently of each other amongst the grains, that heels can sink until arches are flat with the sand, that the little fuzzies that build from one’s socks - despite showering - can finally be taken out to sea.
Always the beach, always naked feet.For the complete article see the 10-10-2012 issue.
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