Ode to Blisters
Dime-sized rebellion—what can you teach me?
Good grief, you hurt.
A bit of angry skin, swelling like a storm cloud of calamitous edema, a blistered volcano on the verge of eruption. Dime-sized despot lodged on my heel, throbbing with rage—what crime did I commit to provoke you? Too much moisture? Too much heat? Some ill-fitting node of fabric on my feet?
I feel you now, here at mile 18 of this marathon. Every step brings a wince, each landing an electric jolt up my leg, like the dermal screech of a record needle grinding against the vinyl of my sock.
After all those training miles and threshold runs, after all those simulation efforts wearing these same shoes and socks now on my feet—after all that, here you are, a shrieking interruption to every step.
What gives, blister? Must you burn away the last scraps of my flagging resolve?
*
When I worked in running stores, blisters were the villains behind countless shoe returns. “Gave me a blister,” customers would mutter matter-of-factly, sliding the cardboard box of offending kicks across the counter. We sales associates would try to triage: what socks did you wear? did you tinker with the lacing? maybe the sizing was off?
It was all speculation. Sometimes blisters are simply the fate of the gods. I’ll bet there was some Grecian deity of skin aliments that hung out on Mount Olympus. Some forgotten demigod of chafing, gleefully tossing spears of torment at the ill-shod masses, irritating the feet of Greeks with bad-fitting sandals.
At least, that’s the best I can come up with now, you angry chunk of flesh.
You’re sending little zags of tearing pain, flashing the check-engine light in the dashboard of my brain, which is, at this mid-race moment, more than a little annoying. We’re only at mile 18, so we’re just going to have to learn to live with each other for a little while longer.
Oh blister, fiery little tormentor that you are, I still love you. Not the pain you’re causing in this moment. I don’t love that one bit. Rather I love what you will become. Once the race is finished and we’ve hobbled back to the hotel, I’ll peel off the layers of whatever made you angry and swollen and bleeding. And you will heal.
Eventually, time will pass and you will become callous. Then together we’ll face this harsh world a little tougher, a littler stronger. Together, we’ll be sterner stuff. Next time, we will be better.
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If I tell you that I don't get blisters, I'm probably making 2025 the Year of the Blister for me. So I won't.
Blisters are like little drama queens—always showing up uninvited, making a fuss, and demanding all the attention. Great read, this one really hit home!