Wife Rule #21: How Beautiful Are Her Feet

There are certain characteristics of another person that you can only develop an appreciation for over an extended period of time. It took years for me to notice some of the supreme qualities my wife possesses, both because of their subtlety, and lack of revealing circumstance. Such are the finer aspects of my wife's feet.

We began dating in the winter, during closed-toe shoe season. It was nearly six months after I met my wife before I ever saw her in sandals. I never knew that I had a natural affinity for painted toenails, but it turns out that I do. Just before a recent warm-weather winter getaway, my wife walked in sporting freshly painted toenails, and I have to admit that they looked pretty good--this despite the fact that her pregnancy currently blocks her view and hinders her ability to reach her feet. But just like the pioneers of womanly fashion that went before her, always defying comfort and practicality, her toenails were painted.

With her possessing such an arsenal of amazing foot ability, I should not have been surprised when I discovered that her toes can sing. This isn't any run-of-the-mill belching-armpit type of performance, either. When I say her toes can sing, I'm talking about full blown Broadway-style talent. I discovered this amazing ability one day when I saw her toes twitching rhythmically.

"What's wrong with your toes?" I tactfully inquired.

"Oh. My toes? Well, they're ... singing," my wife hesitantly replied.

"Hmmm. What are they singing? I can't hear anything."

"Isn't it obvious? They're singing Barbara Ann from the Beach Boys."

And as I watched, I could tell she was right. They were clearly singing Barbara Ann in perfect rhythm. Sometimes when they sing there is CD or radio accompaniment, and sometimes they perform A Capella, The Ten Tiny Tenors. It's a refined sort of music; the kind you hear more in your head that with your ears. There is always an accompanying dance routine, and by watching the dance you kind of pick up on the song.

Her toes often sing when she's relaxed, with her feet up on the ottoman, or when she's laying on the bed, engrossed in a good book. For her, toe activity appears to reflect an almost subconscious-level of happiness and energy--the kind that permeates a soul so fully that a little bit escapes and manifests itself in physical form. This is the same kind of energetic happiness that drives my four-year-old son to roar like a dinosaur and charge headlong into my groin. I prefer the singing toes.

Big Toes are the star performers, and sing the melody as they bounce back and forth jubilantly. The Second Toes are backup, and do the color harmony. The remaining six kind of serve as the chorus, punctuating each performance with occasional bursts of synchronized energy. The whole ensemble is really quite mesmerizing to watch, especially when her toenails have been freshly painted.

The only trouble with this amazing act is, her toes are kind of stage-shy. Often they are performing an obviously emotional number, with enthusiasm appropriate for a Pavarotti-style aria, when I catch them in the act. I try to mask my reaction to this tremendously entertaining spectacle, but I never quite can. As soon as my wife notices the corners of my mouth curling up in a smile, her toes immediately recoil in bashfulness--hiding under a blanket, or behind my feet, or wherever there is cover. I try to explain to her how her toes' performance both entertains and inspires adoration, but I can tell she never quite buys it.

But buy it or not, the show must go on. So I try to catch performances whenever I can, without letting my wife know. I add this talent to the long list of unforeseen benefits of marrying my wife; another one of the amazing things I love about her that I never would have known otherwise.

"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of [her] that [singeth]" (Isaiah 52:7)