Over the weekend, my feet died.

I think they walked one too many miles in my arch-supportless shoes.

I’ll always remember them for their selflessness, willingness to put up with those impractical four-inch hooker heels I recently wore to a bachelorette party, and that one weird hair that I always had to remember to shave off my right big toe.

TMI? Sorry. I’ll stop with the dramatic eulogy. My feet are actually still viable appendages. Or they will be in a day or two once they’ve had a chance to recover.

Let me explain:

On Friday night, my feet happily walked me around downtown Wheaton with my family and right through the doors of Graham’s Chocolates so that I might have the pleasure of consuming their peanut butter chocolate chip ice cream. It was a grand time for me, my feet and all parties involved. Little did my feet know what was in store for them a mere 12 hours later…

The next morning, we ran the “Run for the Animals” 5k in Wheaton, and my feet kicked ass (not literally). They pounded the pavement in running shoes that are old enough to certainly be a health hazard and hardly even complained.

Later that night, my feet schlepped me all over Lincoln Park when Will and I decided to do a mini bar crawl, just the two of us. (That’s mini bar-crawl, not mini-bar crawl. But there’s an idea!)

I think by this point, they were starting to get a little irritable, like a toddler who needs a nap. My arches were aching a little, but it was nothing four beers couldn’t fix. (There’s a joke in there somewhere about Future Me handling my irritable toddler by drinking beer, but…eh. Let’s not ruin this post with talk of having babies. Kids will probably ruin my life, but why let them ruin this post? Mom, please direct all objections to that last sentence to the comments section. My response will include a definition of the term “tongue-in-cheek.” Thank you.)

But back to my feet.

Now here’s the kicker. (Ha! Kicker! Foot joke!) Today, just as my feet were finally feeling like themselves again after a good night’s sleep, I made them carry me 8 miles all the way from our apartment to Montrose Beach and back. Let’s just say my dogs are barking. And can we also say that that might be one of the most random, nonsensical sayings ever?

Obviously, after I write this I’m giving myself a foot massage and wearing shearling-lined Crocs with gel inserts to work tomorrow.

Ok no, that’s just ridiculous – Will will be giving the foot massage.

But seriously, thanks to my feet, I had an absolutely fabulous weekend. See below for proof. Notice not one photo includes my feet, poor guys. Being the base of my selfish body is such a thankless job…