Am I going to fall into an open grave, next?

So.

My boots did quite an admirable job sticking it to the Man (who, in this case, is Jack Frost) - they kicked off the salt stains, and the discoloring from being wet in the snow faded really quickly.

But apparently my waterproofing treatment isn't as affective as I hoped it'd be. In the past couple of days, where it's been just at freezing or a little above, and where there's been little-to-no coordinated effort to clear the streets of the three-to-five inches of slush (that's unfair. There's a lot of coordinated effort. Just in the Kremlin and along Rublevka [the equivalent of Sunset Boulevard]) - in these conditions they cannot cope. And they are perma-wet.

I walk along and the only thought in my head is:

Oh sweet and sour, what if I have trench foot? I don't want to develop trenchfoot. How can I prevent myself from contracting trenchfoot? Crap crap crap crap crap. Trenchfoot.

Yup.

So.

(PS. The title only makes sense in light of "All Quiet on the Western Front." I'm one of those literary types, after all.)