I’d like to start by saying I’m sorry. So sorry. It’s not your fault you’re attached my ankles. You didn’t ask to be stuffed into little sandals and court shoes and pranced into a pulp. I’m sorry for the calluses and the tattered, seldom-painted nails. I’m sorry for the blisters and the infrequent pedicures.

I’ve tried to do better of late: giving you a break with comfy practice shoes and dance sneakers; babying you when I broke my toe last month. But inevitably I get the itch to start wearing the pretty heels and more proper-looking footwear. Soon you’ll be balancing my teetering body on 3 or 4 inch stilts again, if my impractical heart has anything to say about it.

The trainer at the gym says I need to give you better support and stability in my running shoes. I’m an over-pronator, he says, and I have rather flat feet. Different shoes and better insoles will be good for the heels and arches. I promise to do this ASAP. Really, I promise.

I promise to get you all gussied up for spring—painted and buffed and ready for open-toed shoes. I won’t embarrass you or cause you any unnecessary discomfort outside of dance class. I can’t promise I won’t abuse you a little in dance class, and at social dances. But I’ll help you put your best face forward—if feet have faces.

And I promise you foot rubs. The kind with minty lotion. Really, I won’t forget.

I’m sorry, feet. I hope you accept my apology. I’ll do my best to remember that, without you, I wouldn’t dance half so well.