An Ode to My Stupid Evening Foot Washes
The restorative power of coming back to small, silly pre-pandemic rituals
During the summer of 2016, I covered nine music festivals. Beyond being a completely exhausting summer for my eardrums, my feet also took a beating. As a person who prefers to wear Birkenstocks over any other type of shoe, including to music festivals, my feet had acquired a lovely coating of dirt and grime by the end of the day.
That summer, I engaged in a silly little practice I like to call my evening foot washes. Rather than take a full shower — which would’ve solved the dirty feet problem and then some — I’d climb into bed with fresh feet, and nothing else. Neither luxurious nor relaxing (I’d never call the ritual a foot bath or foot soak), my evening foot washes consisted of perching on the side of the tub while rigorously scrubbing the soles of my feet under scorching water in an effort to singe off any filth. The eve before my 24th birthday was spent in such a manner, hunched in my bath like a gargoyle demonically washing my feet.
The nighttime ritual helped me unwind before bed following many summer evenings, festivals, or no. I’d feel just the right amount of clean to justify laying on my sheets and oddly accomplished at having spent enough time out on the town for my feet to get so grimy.
