I have exceptionally nice feet. I mean, they won’t be in magazines or shoe commercials anytime soon, but among all the feet I’ve seen in my life, mine are really nice.

So my left shoe was rubbing my heel bloody, and I went into the campus bookstore and was like, “Hey, Becky, would it kill me to walk home barefoot?”

And most people would tell you about all the diseases you could get and all the sharp puncturing objects on the ground and what about that bee you stepped on because you were barefoot when you were seven?

But no: lovable, trustworthy Becky said, “It won’t hurt — and it’s a really nice day for it!” (Because it is. It’s a beautiful day.)

So I did. It’s a 7-minute walk from anywhere useful on campus to my apartment, and I had to watch where I stepped, but I felt so . . . alive. So in touch with everything around me. So (and I’m using this word as it means “in tune with the senses”) sensual. It’s really a rush to walk barefoot in smooth, soft grass and along cracked sidewalks, dancing around pebbles and hopping rough patches.

Then I got home, washed my feet because you really can’t ignore that nagging voice that says “What if you got diseased?!” and put a bandaid on the bloody spot where my shoe rubbed.

All in all, it’s been an excellent day.