For those of you who did not live through the Victorian period, that was a reasonably common expression of annoyance.
I do not know what my feet might be trying to tell me. I'm pretty sure that they are being metaphorical. And I have not a clue where to find my secret agent decoder ring.
As I stepped out of the elevator on the parking level last night, both feet immediately began to express their displeasure with my sneakers, the flooring, and the state of the world in general.
I am sitting up in bed, trying to figure out what to eat, what to wear, and what to do after work tonight. I don't know if I've pulled a muscle in my foot, if one of those minuscule bones has broken, if it's an excess of lactic acid after Wednesday night's massage, if this is temporary, or if it's part of the new normal. Time to get the foot roller and see if I can get the aching to go away.
But in the meantime I am hungry and distractible. And my pillow just beat me up.