If she said it once, she said it a dozen times. "When your feet hurt, you hurt all over."

I was a young fellow when Aunt Annie intoned that declaration as she sat on our back porch in my dad's wicker rocking chair.

Her wise words came home recently to rest with me again. My feet hurt.

A friend at church stopped me on this particular day to inquire as to how I was doing.

"Wonderful," said I, too quickly and expansively.

Well, what was I supposed to tell her? That I had this ache on my side, that my stomach was making inexplicable sounds, that I felt my head wasn't screwed on just so?

And, conceivably, that all of those disturbances could be traced to the fact that my feet were killing me?

Momentarily, I was chiefly concerned about my feet. After parking my car, I could be seen by the whole world hobbling across the street to the church. My guess is that I looked like the Ancient Mariner walking barefoot on a bed of hot coals.

The trouble began while still at home. After dressing, I couldn't squeeze my right foot into my shoe (also known as a loafer in some quarters).

I did manage to shoe my left foot after a modicum of squiggling, but the right foot simply refused to slide into place. I'd had problems with my size 13s before, principally the right foot, though nothing quite this exasperating.

Well, my wife and I were running late as usual, so we locked up the house and hastened to the car. With the shoe only half on, I clopped around to help her into the passenger seat. If she noticed anything a little peculiar about my walk or bearing, she kept it to herself.

Then, before I slipped behind the wheel, and with my forefinger serving as a shoehorn for the ninth or tenth excruciating try, the thing was finally on.

We're still not talking comfortable, mind you.

Even so, there we were at last, praise the Lord, at the church and stepping along the back aisle.

Suddenly my wife, pacing swiftly ahead, stopped, waiting for me to catch up. She glanced at my feet. A slow smile filled out her face.

I looked down. Oh, good grief. I looked like Charlie Chaplin. I hid my face in my hands. I really did. In my haste to get to church in time, I'd inadvertently put the right shoe on my left foot and the left shoe on my right foot.

Quickly I made the change.

And you know something? Aunt Annie was right. I began to feel better all over.

Retired Sentinel staffer Ed Hayes, 81, welcomes your views and suggestions. Write to him in care of the Orlando Sentinel, MP-72, P.O. Box 2833, Orlando, FL 32802-2833.