I'd better hide.
I inherited Dad's, caused - for both us - by having the flattest of flat feet. Ironically, I spent most of my days wearing 'sensible' flat shoes, only to find out in my 40s that they were the worst thing for me.
The orthotics were too late to save my feet. By my mid-50s, I could hardly walk.
Dad had to have every single toe broken and re-set; in my case, they only did the big toes, although I also lost a chunk of bone. One foot was left looking like a lobster claw, but at least I can walk.
I liked the look of my feet-with-bunions. I was used to them. They just looked a bit pointy at the joint.
I mourn for my bunions, but not the pain. I mourn for the shoes I used to be able to wear.
Tomorrow, the Day of the Bunion, I shall hide my head in ignominy.
[Footnote...
My pins are supposed to stay in situ. When they did Dad's in the '70s, each toe had a metal rod protruding from the end and each foot was in plaster.
The day he and Mum arrived at West Fife Hospital to have the casts removed and the rods taken out, the HCP apparently said "Now, Mr Wearovich, I'll just give you a local anaesthetic."
Dad, of course, was a 6ft coalminer, toughened in war and the Fife coalfields. He nearly lost both legs to the shrapnel from a German shell which had killed the man standing next to him.
"No, no, ye're fine. Just pu' them oot."
"Mr Wearovich, I must insist. The pain..."
"It'll be fine."
According to Mum, the HCP used pliers to remove the first one and Dad passed out. He was right. He didn't need the local.
In my case, I'm grateful that mine will just stay where they are. However, I cannot in good conscience celebrate the Day of the Bunion since the Wearovich family has unfortunately spurned those proud protuberances.]