Marching and Metatarsals

Mr. Landis is the quiz bowl coach. He knows everything. Today he read off a question that happened to be a biology question, not exactly a rarity in quiz bowl, but this question was. It was a once in a lifetime biology quiz bowl practice question, a question I understood. I didn't get to respond though because Gage buzzed before I could believe that I actually knew the answer. I can't remember what the question was anymore. I actually don't remember what the answer was either. What I do remember is that one of the possible responses was "metatarsals".

Now, let's assume you aren't a quiz bowler and you aren't a science nerd either (congratulations, you have successfully evaded one of the most prominent high school cults alive today). Maybe you are so far removed from biological rhetoric that "metatarsals" is an entirely new word to you, or maybe you just had your anatomy and physiology final, and you still can't remember what metatarsals are. (If that's the case, I hope you failed.) It doesn't really matter why you don't know it; you just don't. And that's okay because I do, and I'll be defining it for you shortly. Metatarsals are the bones in one’s foot that connect to the phalanges, phalanges, another word from my biology vocabulary, meaning toes in this instance. Metatarsals are only found in the foot, but today, science was wrong because I found metatarsals in a quiz bowl question. 

How long it had been since metatarsals had crossed my mind, too long for such a delicious word to be gone. I vowed to never let it escape me again. There was something march-y about it, very rhythmic. After quiz bowl was over and I started my small sojourn to the other end of the building for gym, I found myself thinking "met-a-tar-sals, met-a-tar-sals" to the rhythm of my step. 

It was 7 AM and I already had a word to march to for the day; that taken care of, the "Being Flustered and Disoriented While Trying to Settle into Daily Routine" portion of my morning was largely eliminated from my day. I stalked through the fluorescent lights and stagnant smells of high school with purpose, first mouthing the words and then finally singing, "Met-a-tar-sals, met-a-tar-sals." There's probably medication for that kind of behavior, but as strange as it may be to sing a word as I walk, keeping a beat and therefore keeping order in the midst of the disgusting disorder that is high school, I'm a happy kid. I don't go to counseling. I don't need to. I've found my cure and today it was metatarsals.

Since marching can only truly be accomplished by creatures with feet and metatarsals are located in the foot, feet were at the front of my mind. I've always liked my feet. I'm a Good Foot pure-blood. Both of my parents have nice feet, none of that extra-long middle toe business. Our toes descend perfectly in height from the big toe down to the pinky. 

I have other qualifications for good feet besides the height of each toe, like size. It's important that the feet in question not be too big, but it is equally important that they not be too small. Good feet also have to have smooth skin that's never dry, but never clammy. Good feet have toes that turn olive-brown in the summer while they're running through the backyard. Good feet slip quietly in and out of shoes without disturbing nearby noses. Good feet stay on their side of the bed at night. Good feet look good with purple toenail polish and toe rings, and good feet never wear sandals in the winter, unless those sandals are accompanied by socks.

I started thinking of all the feet I'd ever seen, splotchy red and white feet, long and skinny flipper feet, circle toes like tree frogs' feet, red and hot and sweaty feet, pasty wan and freezing feet, stuff gets lost between my toes feet,  let's curl up and cuddle feet, hotels that stink in Spain feet. They were disgusting, all of them. "Take them away!" I ordered from the throne where I sat as the Queen of Good Feet, but as they filed out the door, those feet managed to kick over my throne, sending me soaring through the air. My own feet broke the fall, and I was balanced again in no time. "See! That's what we're here for," they chided in huffy breaths, "Now get to class." 

Ah yes, that's what I was doing. I looked up from my clogs in enough time to see the student I had just bumped into, the one whose feet had toppled my throne, looking back at me from over his shoulder. Metatarsals marched me onward to gym class were I sat down and listened, yet again, for the omission of the quiz bowl team's latest victory on the morning announcements. I might have been upset walking back to the locker room that for all the early mornings with Mr. Landis, we weren't even considered a sports team, but it's hard to be angry and sing "Met-a-tar-sals, met-a-tar-sals," at the same time.