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An old adage in writing says we should show, not tell. Details help reveal the fabric of a person, lending specific flavor to a story. For instance, it's tough to visualize "impulsive." It's easier to conceive of your idiot ex-boyfriend Tom taking a selfie at the narrowest bluff of Angel's Landing in Zion before slipping enough to scare him straight.

Sorry for the syntax lesson; we're getting to the feet, I promise. Because I did come here to talk about feet. Big dogs. Trotters. Piggies. Tootsies. Five-fingered floor mitts. We barely knew ye, yet you colored in crucial information about humanity.

In buoyant recent news, most travelers no longer have to remove their shoes at the airport. The Transportation Security Administration rule had been in place some 20 years, starting in the era girlies nationwide were stuffing their hambones into musky Ugg boots for spring break on Clearwater Beach.

Wrapped in post-9/11 security frenzy, the shoe ordeal became a detested safety measure Americans obeyed, undressing in the queue like Airside A was a Victorian bedchamber. But airport body scan technology has majorly improved since 2001 when a passenger tried to set off homemade shoe bombs on a flight from Paris to Miami.

I will not pine for seeing everyone's private, personal toes lined up in a funk-fueled herd. More and more people were skipping shoe removal anyway, having paid for TSA PreCheck. Now some PreCheck people are mad because they're less special. There's always something to be mad about!

Still, I will miss what the naked meat plates said about people, the stories they told, the windows they granted into secret worlds. Yes, I'm going to get some weird emails for this, and no, I do not have any photos to share.

Here's to the raw-doggers, the folks like Tom who woke up an hour before the flight and hustled to the airport in grimy Tevas, slinging on a Cotopaxi backpack that cost more than the plane ticket. These people flung their worn sandals into the bin and flopped up to the scanner with their bare feet splayed on the treacherous floor, exhibiting untold levels of chill. Staph infection? Never heard of her.

Here's to the fashion-obsessed, the ones who chose complicated footwear that had no business in a high-pressure situation. Was the airport really the time for a lace-up gladiator look? A leather boot with 24 hooks? Stilettos with buckles from toe to calf? A stiff high-top with both laces and Velcro? No. But these runway stunners did not care if others had time to stop at Hudson News for Chex Mix rye toasts. These people also did not have their ID ready.

Here's to the secret slobs, their true Type B natures betrayed in security. One sock said NIKE and the other said HUG ME above an illustration of the animated alien Stitch. These folks had a certain eau de loafer, a hole in the toe, a threadbare cross-hatch, a subtle sock height difference imperceptible to most, but not all (it's me, I'm perceiving). Mother said to wear clean underwear in case of emergency, but they did not listen to mother.

Shoe removal was the great equalizer, the move that cut us all down to one size. Now we'll never know who is secretly sweating sockless in knee-high pleather boots. We'll never watch a mom of four struggle to slip off Hokas while collapsing a stroller. We'll never know which serious business travelers have regrettable Winnie the Pooh ankle tattoos. The crusty foundations of our bodies will return to shadowy suppositions, to lower extremity lore, languishing in obscurity. This is the price of progress.

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Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on X or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

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