At Joe's request, the beginning of a fiction piece:
I woke up this morning and I couldn't feel my feet. They weren't tingling like they were asleep, I just couldn't feel anything below my ankles. And it wasn't an uncomfortable or worrisome feeling. I woke up and thought, Huh, no feet. I didn't try to wiggle them or anything. Why would I? I didn't have feet.
As I lay there in the groggy state of early morning wake-up, I considered how my day was going to go with no feet. I could hobble over to the bathroom probably or even crawl, like I did that one time when I threw out my back and couldn't walk. I could scoot myself on my butt to the stairs and scooch down them like a toddler. Once I got down though, how would I get around? We had a rolling office chair down in the den. I could lever myself up into that and push myself around in that. Problem solved. I faded back to sleep for a few minutes, content with that solution.
I woke up again twenty-two minutes later, rolled to the side, stepped out of bed and shuffled off to the bathroom. It wasn't until I was standing at the sink washing my hands and looking for skin imperfections on my face that I remembered the no feet scenario. "Wacko," I said to myself in the mirror. "What?" Jack called from the other room. "Nothing," I said, "Just talking to myself." I turned away from the mirror and turned on the shower to preheat. I turned off the bathroom light and went to lie down next to Jack to wait for the shower to be ready. "Is everything okay?" he asked, using his own groggy morning voice. "Oh, yeah," I said. "Just thinking about waking up with no feet." He settled lower into his pillow and pulled me in closer. "Wacko," he said, tickling my ear with his breath. "Right," I said, snuggling into him, "Just what I was saying."