reflexology414
1st Level Red Feather
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Life has been hectic and I haven’t posted for a while, but the Labor Day weekend is giving me some down time. I thought I’d take a few moments to jot down a brief summary of an experience from my high school days. This will be one of my shorter posts, but it’s a fond memory, and it seemed like a nice one to share at the forum.
I’ve posted about my cousin Kate here before, and this was another of our encounters, which took place during autumn of our junior year. The mandatory biology course I was taking that semester was nothing less than an endurance trial, with a boring instructor who made a forty-five minute class period feel like six days.
Perhaps the most mind-numbing part of the course was the month-long anatomy unit, taught in a somewhat PG-13 fashion at the behest of conservative parents and the equally prudish school board. The first series of lectures were devoted to the structures of the eyes and sinuses, and the instructor conveyed that information in the most colorless, monotone fashion possible.
I honestly thought I’d die of old age and/or boredom until the tenth assignment was announced – memorizing the anatomy of the hands and feet. My interest was immediately piqued, and I recognized the endless foot-play potential of this project. Things only got better when the teacher passed around the corresponding homework packets.
There were, as I recall, ten pages or so of unmarked anatomy charts outlining various parts of the hands and feet. It was almost excessive, with an entire page devoted to nothing but the fingers, and another featuring the toes. To complete the assignment, students were required to correctly label each chart and memorize the parts in question.
The timing of this project was idyllic, as Kate was coming to visit that weekend. I knew we’d have tons of time alone together, as our parents had purchased tickets to a long-winded church festival. They’d also talked about attending a play at the local college.
When Saturday finally rolled around, Kate arrived with her parents in tow, just as scheduled. I waited for the right moment to bring up my homework, which I’d taken the liberty of modifying by removing the pages related to the anatomy of the hands.
Grandmother and our parents were in the process of leaving the house when I informed Kate of my project. She was thoroughly skeptical because I’d manufactured things similar to this before, and she seemed to recognize that I was planning to use this as an excuse to tickle her feet – and she was right.
Kate’s mother was still within earshot, and I made absolutely certain that she heard me whining about the importance of my homework and the fact that I was struggling to learn and memorize the assigned information from the one-dimensional charts found in the course book. This was a bold-faced lie, but it was part of my plan… and it worked.
Kate’s mom was a registered nurse, and she seemed pleased that my school was teaching anatomy at all. She was also annoyed that Kate hadn’t volunteered to assist me (keep I mind that she knew nothing of my foot fetish or the years of foot and tickling games I’d played with her daughter over the years).
My beloved, unsuspecting aunt ushered my cousin to the couch and literally ordered her to take off her shoes – a pair of adorable wedges with a series of elegant straps that took her a few moments to unlace. She also handed her my course book and instructed her to quiz me and help me get the charts properly labeled by the time she returned.
I was standing there in a daze, my mouth agape, still trying to absorb what I’d just witnessed when my aunt lovingly guided me to the couch and placed her daughter’s bare feet in my lap. She sternly repeated her instructions to Kate and dashed for the car, where her husband was honking the horn and complaining that she’d make everyone late.
Kate was absolutely stunned that I’d duped her mother into helping me orchestrate a foot fetish game. She was, however, a remarkably good sport about the whole thing, and she did help me complete my homework.
For the better part of two hours, Kate sat patiently as I scribbled words like “distal phalanges” and “middle phalanges” on her toes and also labeled other portions of her foot as well. Her only protests came when I started labeling the sole of her foot, and the ball-point pen I was using produced tickling sensations that brought her to the point of helpless cackles and squeals.
Between fits of giggles, Kate quizzed me about the various parts of the foot covered in the assignment. I jotted the answers down as they came to me, and slowly completed all five pages.
By the time I finished, Kate’s feet looked like they’d been tattooed, and I could in fact correctly answer every question on my homework assignment. That wasn’t a consideration when I planned this activity, but it turned out that working with an actual pair of feet – beautiful ones at that – helped me learn the subject matter better than I could have from the book alone.
Kate had been phenomenally tolerant about this exercise, but she teasingly complained that I’d made a mess of her feet and insisted that I clean them. I’m fairly certain that she realized her error the moment the words crossed her lips, but it was too late.
I gleefully picked up my cousin, almost like a groom preparing to carry his bride over the threshold, and rushed her to the kitchen, where I carefully laid her down on the counter top with her feet hanging over the edge of the sink. Before she could offer any protests or appeals, I lathered her hypersensitive feet with liquid dish-soap and vigorously scrubbed them with my fingernails until every remaining trace of ink was gone.
I’m almost surprised the plaster of the kitchen ceiling didn’t crack from the sheer volume and pitch of giggles, shrieks, and squeals that Kate emitted while having her feet washed, but she survived the process and insisted that she wasn’t angry. I nonetheless felt obligated to reward her for putting up with my antics.
I carried Kate back to the living room, ordered her favorite local pizza, and spent the remainder of the evening massaging her feet and doting on her to excess. It turned out to be a wonderful experience, and it still ranks among the better ones of my life.
I’ve posted about my cousin Kate here before, and this was another of our encounters, which took place during autumn of our junior year. The mandatory biology course I was taking that semester was nothing less than an endurance trial, with a boring instructor who made a forty-five minute class period feel like six days.
Perhaps the most mind-numbing part of the course was the month-long anatomy unit, taught in a somewhat PG-13 fashion at the behest of conservative parents and the equally prudish school board. The first series of lectures were devoted to the structures of the eyes and sinuses, and the instructor conveyed that information in the most colorless, monotone fashion possible.
I honestly thought I’d die of old age and/or boredom until the tenth assignment was announced – memorizing the anatomy of the hands and feet. My interest was immediately piqued, and I recognized the endless foot-play potential of this project. Things only got better when the teacher passed around the corresponding homework packets.
There were, as I recall, ten pages or so of unmarked anatomy charts outlining various parts of the hands and feet. It was almost excessive, with an entire page devoted to nothing but the fingers, and another featuring the toes. To complete the assignment, students were required to correctly label each chart and memorize the parts in question.
The timing of this project was idyllic, as Kate was coming to visit that weekend. I knew we’d have tons of time alone together, as our parents had purchased tickets to a long-winded church festival. They’d also talked about attending a play at the local college.
When Saturday finally rolled around, Kate arrived with her parents in tow, just as scheduled. I waited for the right moment to bring up my homework, which I’d taken the liberty of modifying by removing the pages related to the anatomy of the hands.
Grandmother and our parents were in the process of leaving the house when I informed Kate of my project. She was thoroughly skeptical because I’d manufactured things similar to this before, and she seemed to recognize that I was planning to use this as an excuse to tickle her feet – and she was right.
Kate’s mother was still within earshot, and I made absolutely certain that she heard me whining about the importance of my homework and the fact that I was struggling to learn and memorize the assigned information from the one-dimensional charts found in the course book. This was a bold-faced lie, but it was part of my plan… and it worked.
Kate’s mom was a registered nurse, and she seemed pleased that my school was teaching anatomy at all. She was also annoyed that Kate hadn’t volunteered to assist me (keep I mind that she knew nothing of my foot fetish or the years of foot and tickling games I’d played with her daughter over the years).
My beloved, unsuspecting aunt ushered my cousin to the couch and literally ordered her to take off her shoes – a pair of adorable wedges with a series of elegant straps that took her a few moments to unlace. She also handed her my course book and instructed her to quiz me and help me get the charts properly labeled by the time she returned.
I was standing there in a daze, my mouth agape, still trying to absorb what I’d just witnessed when my aunt lovingly guided me to the couch and placed her daughter’s bare feet in my lap. She sternly repeated her instructions to Kate and dashed for the car, where her husband was honking the horn and complaining that she’d make everyone late.
Kate was absolutely stunned that I’d duped her mother into helping me orchestrate a foot fetish game. She was, however, a remarkably good sport about the whole thing, and she did help me complete my homework.
For the better part of two hours, Kate sat patiently as I scribbled words like “distal phalanges” and “middle phalanges” on her toes and also labeled other portions of her foot as well. Her only protests came when I started labeling the sole of her foot, and the ball-point pen I was using produced tickling sensations that brought her to the point of helpless cackles and squeals.
Between fits of giggles, Kate quizzed me about the various parts of the foot covered in the assignment. I jotted the answers down as they came to me, and slowly completed all five pages.
By the time I finished, Kate’s feet looked like they’d been tattooed, and I could in fact correctly answer every question on my homework assignment. That wasn’t a consideration when I planned this activity, but it turned out that working with an actual pair of feet – beautiful ones at that – helped me learn the subject matter better than I could have from the book alone.
Kate had been phenomenally tolerant about this exercise, but she teasingly complained that I’d made a mess of her feet and insisted that I clean them. I’m fairly certain that she realized her error the moment the words crossed her lips, but it was too late.
I gleefully picked up my cousin, almost like a groom preparing to carry his bride over the threshold, and rushed her to the kitchen, where I carefully laid her down on the counter top with her feet hanging over the edge of the sink. Before she could offer any protests or appeals, I lathered her hypersensitive feet with liquid dish-soap and vigorously scrubbed them with my fingernails until every remaining trace of ink was gone.
I’m almost surprised the plaster of the kitchen ceiling didn’t crack from the sheer volume and pitch of giggles, shrieks, and squeals that Kate emitted while having her feet washed, but she survived the process and insisted that she wasn’t angry. I nonetheless felt obligated to reward her for putting up with my antics.
I carried Kate back to the living room, ordered her favorite local pizza, and spent the remainder of the evening massaging her feet and doting on her to excess. It turned out to be a wonderful experience, and it still ranks among the better ones of my life.
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But it's not too late for me to go back to school!
