Short, cryptic, and marginally observational snippets from life in the past week:
]]>Short, cryptic, and marginally observational snippets from life in the past week:
I made the announcement tonight to a few people who needed lots of advance notice. Birthdaybash is the weekend of October 20. I thought I'd dread turning thirty, but so far I've found myself rather excited at the prospect. I'm sure I'll say more as the date approaches, but it took me most of the way through my twenties before I really had a handle on who I was, and who I might want to become if/when I grew up. If I'd had my druthers I'd have celebrated #30 on another continent, but we're not ready to do it properly, so I'd rather wait. Instead, I'm going to surround myself with the best this life offers: the joyful, irreverent companionship of friends.
A three-day headache, followed immediately thereafter by a cold, does not lead to a productive Amy. Indeed, my couch is sick of me and wants me to go curl up somewhere else for a while. Fang (collectively) achieved the impossible—actually managing to receive all the scritchies their little feline hearts desired. That, alone, clearly indicates it is time to get better and finish up the code.
Silly timezone problems are nearly cured. Spousal thanks for the code vaccination that finally put us on the right track. Ask me about it sometime. I'll make amusing growly noises.
Friendships hit rocky spots sometimes, and those rocky spots become logarithmically more painful to deal with as the depth of friendship increases. This was a really painful and intensely private problem between me and a truly close friend (and those of you who know me well know that I don't invoke the TCF phrase lightly). I cried, mostly when no one was looking or listening, and Fang got cuddles they really didn't understand. Talking it out was painful/awkward/hard enough, and I'm raw in lots of places that will take a while to heal, but they will heal. I got hurt; it happens, y'know? Life's meant to be played full-contact, and this is an occasional consequence. It'll take time and discussion and honesty to set things right, but I've got the time and I'm willing to do the rest.
I'm obsessed with this—admittedly, gorgeous—Italian couture shoe I saw in Orlando. The six-year-old in me wantsssssss it and whispers sweet seductive nothings in my ear about how it'd be a signature part of my wardrobe if I bought it. Except that I can't afford it until it hits the last sale level at DSW. I'll wait and see. Original price it's a mortgage-payment shoe, but within my range at 80% off. It currently stands at 50% off. I'm consoling myself by reminding myself that I have a good shot at it—not only do I wear an unusual shoe size, this particular pair I tried on has the wrong size written on the box. Dammit, Orlando citizens, do your best to make sure that no woman with a size 5½ shoe size and a bit of cash to burn spots this little glamourpuss of a shoe.
That means a 35½ European size and an Australian 4.
Sorry, the reference was too easy to pass up. Got some interesting life events going on here.
Yeah, it's still breathing down my neck. End of August: D-Day for my code. I'm bringing my 'A' game, my little black dress, and my ass-kicking shoes. What can't be solved with brains, finesse, or well-commented code will likely see the careful application of a 4" purple Givenchy stiletto.
Well, I won't start with that one. The slinky little red shoes (my lucky shoes) will come first. Then I'll pick something with an innocuous and generally decorous heel—something long enough to take a core cranial sample but not long enough to attach the offending human to the wall. That failing? Yep. Someone will get to talk to Miss Givenchy Geekygirl, and that's just not gonna end well, because those little heel taps are designed for serious punishment.
Someone said lipstick librarians are born, not made.
In the meantime, you guys keep on rocking your respective casbahs. If you guys like the Random Delicatessen format, let me know and I'll use it when I don't have enough big stuff to post about, but have little stuff.
]]>P.S. - whichever cat is barfing on the carpet, please stop or I won't love you any more, and the scritchies will cease until food retention improves. —the kittymom
Memory, leave me something - I lose so much on a daily basis; give me this, on days when I was happy, for the days that will inevitably come when I am not, so that I may remember the taste of these moments that, inevitably, go…
— 'Rockies on my right,' 10 October 2004
Any other day, I would have said that this day did not go as planned, but in truth, we had few plans; just notes and directions scribbled down in a notebook, hopefully enough to get through the day. Denver was supposed to be Saturday, but Chris came down with a bug. Instead, I watched television, made food, and gamed with Jake while Chris slept off the worst of it with NyQuil.
Sunday afternoon found us swapping tasks: grabbing showers and tracking down directions. Past the silliness of me wanting to hunt for shoes, we agreed to hit up a comics/gaming store and SecondSpin, the enormous used CD shop I had mail-ordered from for several years. In the midst of a staunchly non-commercial trip, this would be the day in which I spent money.
'It happens too fast
to make sense of it,
to make it last'
It had snowed. It was just enough to dust the parking lots, partially melt in the heat of the day, and freeze back into patches of ice. It was just enough to make the spun-sugar mountains off in the distance glow blue-white in the early afternoon sunlight as I put the car on cruise control and headed south.
Shoes first, we agreed. I expected to find nothing, expected to walk in and laugh at the designer remnants and joke with Chris, which we did, but not three minutes after arriving in the store, I saw a glimpse of fabric that caught my eye. It was so simple to pull them down and tease Chris with them, for they were purple, and anything purple was fair game where he was concerned. Except that I looked at them and, amidst blanching a little at their price, realized that I might be holding my one regret from this trip if I didn't at least try them on.
They cost enough to justify calling a friend and asking for an opinion, an opinion that I truthfully knew before she even answered the phone. The same opinion that I was getting from the laughing friend next to me: buy the shoes, you know you want them.
I did.
The fact that shoes like that were actually made in the doll-sized 5½ that I required amazed me.
Much of the day is unimportant. Some may be written about later. We proved that there is, indeed, a place in the universe where Arkansas and Colorado intersect; right down the road from SecondSpin, actually. When I whipped the car around in a U-turn to get to the store (which I missed on the first go-round), we chuckled at the congruence of street names and then walked in the door.
Chris walked straight to the DVDs and said, "Oh, I am in trouble here." I went about it in a more organized fashion; I had my list of CDs to seek for Jeff, and stuck to it. Afterwards, I called him and told him what I had found, which appalled Chris.
Chris: "Isn't the point of a gift to be a surprise?"
Me: "But what if he's already bought them and I don't know about it?"
Chris: "Um…"
Me: "Besides, even if he knows, he still gets the anticipation. He doesn't get his hands on these until I'm home."
Chris: "You guys are odd."
I bought two CDs for me. One, an impulse buy, a Sander Kleinenberg double-CD set that I thought Asai had recommended. The other, planned: Jimmy Eat World's "Clarity," which I had long associated with Chris after he'd given me mp3s from that album to listen to in my spare time.
We were late, later than I thought we'd be, as we prepared to go home. Buckled into the rental Stratus, I stared at the two CDs and, at the last moment, picked "Clarity" to put in the player. I already associated it with Chris. This would be just one more moment.
I could feel the emptiness of the hourglass. It was no longer time to rest and relax; it was time to go back to the apartment and pack, because it was nearly time to fly home. It hit me during the second song, hit me when I remembered the title of the second song was "Lucky Denver Mint," and I had it. Many moments pass by quickly, unremembered; I knew this one would stick.
Music. Chris, talking. The steering wheel under my hands, the glow of the speedometer, weaving through I-25 traffic. The knowledge that I'd just seen my last Colorado sunset of the year, and that tomorrow, the sun would set on me in Atlanta. This 'here' would devolve back to 'there,' and we would go on with life.
On the road back from Atlanta two days later—Valentine's Day—I played 'Table For Glasses' until I had it right.
I came home with a pair of purple Givenchy shoes*, a song in my ear, and no regrets.
* and before you all collectively lose your minds, the shoes were 80% off, and less than $100. I am insane, yes, but not that kind of crazy.]]>
Memory, leave me something - I lose so much on a daily basis; give me this, on days when I was happy, for the days that will inevitably come when I am not, so that I may remember the taste of these moments that, inevitably, go…
— 'Rockies on my right,' 10 October 2004
Any other day, I would have said that this day did not go as planned, but in truth, we had few plans; just notes and directions scribbled down in a notebook, hopefully enough to get through the day. Denver was supposed to be Saturday, but Chris came down with a bug. Instead, I watched television, made food, and gamed with Jake while Chris slept off the worst of it with NyQuil.
Sunday afternoon found us swapping tasks: grabbing showers and tracking down directions. Past the silliness of me wanting to hunt for shoes, we agreed to hit up a comics/gaming store and SecondSpin, the enormous used CD shop I had mail-ordered from for several years. In the midst of a staunchly non-commercial trip, this would be the day in which I spent money.
'It happens too fast
to make sense of it,
to make it last'
It had snowed. It was just enough to dust the parking lots, partially melt in the heat of the day, and freeze back into patches of ice. It was just enough to make the spun-sugar mountains off in the distance glow blue-white in the early afternoon sunlight as I put the car on cruise control and headed south.
Shoes first, we agreed. I expected to find nothing, expected to walk in and laugh at the designer remnants and joke with Chris, which we did, but not three minutes after arriving in the store, I saw a glimpse of fabric that caught my eye. It was so simple to pull them down and tease Chris with them, for they were purple, and anything purple was fair game where he was concerned. Except that I looked at them and, amidst blanching a little at their price, realized that I might be holding my one regret from this trip if I didn't at least try them on.
They cost enough to justify calling a friend and asking for an opinion, an opinion that I truthfully knew before she even answered the phone. The same opinion that I was getting from the laughing friend next to me: buy the shoes, you know you want them.
I did.
The fact that shoes like that were actually made in the doll-sized 5½ that I required amazed me.
Much of the day is unimportant. Some may be written about later. We proved that there is, indeed, a place in the universe where Arkansas and Colorado intersect; right down the road from SecondSpin, actually. When I whipped the car around in a U-turn to get to the store (which I missed on the first go-round), we chuckled at the congruence of street names and then walked in the door.
Chris walked straight to the DVDs and said, "Oh, I am in trouble here." I went about it in a more organized fashion; I had my list of CDs to seek for Jeff, and stuck to it. Afterwards, I called him and told him what I had found, which appalled Chris.
Chris: "Isn't the point of a gift to be a surprise?"
Me: "But what if he's already bought them and I don't know about it?"
Chris: "Um…"
Me: "Besides, even if he knows, he still gets the anticipation. He doesn't get his hands on these until I'm home."
Chris: "You guys are odd."
I bought two CDs for me. One, an impulse buy, a Sander Kleinenberg double-CD set that I thought Asai had recommended. The other, planned: Jimmy Eat World's "Clarity," which I had long associated with Chris after he'd given me mp3s from that album to listen to in my spare time.
We were late, later than I thought we'd be, as we prepared to go home. Buckled into the rental Stratus, I stared at the two CDs and, at the last moment, picked "Clarity" to put in the player. I already associated it with Chris. This would be just one more moment.
I could feel the emptiness of the hourglass. It was no longer time to rest and relax; it was time to go back to the apartment and pack, because it was nearly time to fly home. It hit me during the second song, hit me when I remembered the title of the second song was "Lucky Denver Mint," and I had it. Many moments pass by quickly, unremembered; I knew this one would stick.
Music. Chris, talking. The steering wheel under my hands, the glow of the speedometer, weaving through I-25 traffic. The knowledge that I'd just seen my last Colorado sunset of the year, and that tomorrow, the sun would set on me in Atlanta. This 'here' would devolve back to 'there,' and we would go on with life.
On the road back from Atlanta two days later—Valentine's Day—I played 'Table For Glasses' until I had it right.
I came home with a pair of purple Givenchy shoes*, a song in my ear, and no regrets.
* and before you all collectively lose your minds, the shoes were 80% off, and less than $100. I am insane, yes, but not that kind of crazy.]]>
I did my errands, and bought my tea, and on the way back, I let the solid, I-paid-good-money-for-these tapping noises of my new shoes lead me over to the sale rack. I'd always wondered what 'designer' shoes would look like; they just weren't a part of my world. I thought oh, I'd look, and probably giggle, and drive on.
But see, there's back story. There's always back story, because that's what life is, a continuing series of ever-embellished back stories.
* * * * *
]]>I did my errands, and bought my tea, and on the way back, I let the solid, I-paid-good-money-for-these tapping noises of my new shoes lead me over to the sale rack. I'd always wondered what 'designer' shoes would look like; they just weren't a part of my world. I thought oh, I'd look, and probably giggle, and drive on.
But see, there's back story. There's always back story, because that's what life is, a continuing series of ever-embellished back stories.
* * * * *
The truth is that there was a first pair of red shoes. As part of my pre-Nordstrom attempt to find shoes that fit, I had gone to Parisian and nosed around in the sale racks. Most were ugly, but I found one shoe—one well-made, classic loafer in a deep cherry red—that fit my right foot. I didn't have time to try on the left shoe that day, because doing so meant requesting the second shoe be brought from the back, so I made a point to return the next day.
I was excited, thinking that perhaps I had finally found a pair of classy dress shoes that would fit me. After all, if they fit my right foot, they'd likely fit my left as well. Imagine my disappointment when the sales assistant brought the shoe back to me, and I looked down at it only to realize that the entire interior of the sole was missing.
I showed him both shoes and said, "Do you really think these are in salable condition?" He shook his head no, and took the shoes away.
I was sad—sadder than I had an explanation for. I realized sometime during the night of anticipation that I wanted the red shoes, wanted something a little snazzier, a little classier, than the plain Birkenstocks and special-ordered sneakers that my unusually-sized feet had all but doomed me to.
A comforting voice on the other end of the phone said, "Keep looking, kitty. If there's one, there will be another."
* * * *
A few days later, I found myself staring at rows of some of what could only be described as 'frivolous' shoes. I am not Puritanical when it comes to clothing (as this entry attests) but there is a certain degree of silliness that I just can't understand. How much disposable income must one have to drop over two hundred dollars for a pair of high-heeled feathered pink mules? They screamed 'conspicuous consumption,' and I would have been ashamed to wear them.
Then, nestled in the middle of the "size 6.5 and below" rack, I saw it.
Oh, it was <? popup('/images/2006/mocellent.jpg', 'a breathtaking little thing', 589, 364); ?>. Some tiny part of my genetic code, heretofore unknown but inherited from my shoe-loving mother, flared to life.
I will confess that I have spent most of my life in cheaper shoe stores, and professed to not truly understand the differences between cheap shoes and good shoes. I picked up this shoe, turned it over, and began to understand. A good-quality sole. Clean, precise stitching, and the materials, oh, the materials. I had no idea what this shoe was made of, but its shine had this amazing, liquid quality.
…and it was red. Breathtakingly red. Not classy, wear-with-dignity red, but fire engine, blatant, little-black-dress-and-strut red. Stuart Weitzman, a name that even I knew. I reassured myself that there was no possible way that I could wear a shoe like this, so I did the only sane thing: I took off my right shoe and slipped the little red one on, and --
-- oh, dear.
I looked at the price tag and blanched. Admittedly, I'm the queen of cheap airfare, but I could buy a one-way cross-country trip for the amount those shoes cost, even at 50% off.
I put the shoe back. I didn't dare ask if the other one fit, because right then, I knew with unwavering certainty, if that shoe fit I would buy it, no matter the cost. I put it back knowing I would never see its like again.
I went back to Brian and Suzan's. That night, I talked to every person I could find and asked for opinions, advice, help. I asked the question I couldn't answer: even though I had so much trouble finding shoes I could wear, was it right to spend this much on a pair? Could such an expense ever be justified? I was surprised by the response—I expected sanity, sensibility, but instead I was all but ordered, in no uncertain terms, to at least go back and try on the other shoe. Silly domesticat, they said.
Of course the other shoe fit. Of course it did, because that's just how my life works.
But life comes with choices, and I hadn't budgeted for this one, and I realized that I could do one of two things. The only money I had to buy these shoes with was my money that I had earmarked for my flight out west in the spring. I could have airfare or the shoes.
I wonder if the shoe salesmen at Nordstrom wondered at me, sitting there in the cozy chair, holding a pair of Stuart Weitzmans (shoes they probably sold every day). If they could have seen inside my head, they would have seen me picturing clear air and a mountain skyline, and asking myself if I could put off my trip, all for a pair of shoes.
I hoped I'd be forgiven, and I handed the shoes to the salesman. I had to overcome the lump in my throat before I was able to say, "I'll take them."
* * * * *
I can tell you this. The friends in question forgave me—indeed, they'll see the shoes at PHE next weekend. They are spectacular shoes. Once-in-a-lifetime shoes. The kind of shoes you wear all black with and pretend that, oh yes, you just threw them on and oh, aren't they just so deliciously casual?
I lost a part of my personality that day. The part of my personality, so long held and so deeply cherished, that could honestly claim to be indifferent to fashion. Or, as I say to anyone who sees my driver's license these days: lose fifty pounds, cut off most of your hair, get contact lenses and learn how to use makeup—you'd look totally different, too.
The truth is that somewhere along the way, I learned to care. I do have a personal style. When I'm casual, I'm goofy and silly, as anyone who knows my penchant for outrageous socks (or the famous technicolor cat pants) can attest. But I know what I look good in. For dressy casual it's dark blue jeans, button-down silk or cotton shirts, and loafers. For winter, a single-color skirt and an excellent sweater. For dressier occasions, it's one of my single-color sheath dresses.
These fit, and not only were they beautiful, they suited me. That alone is worth almost any price.
Well, that, and having a friend look at them while we were having nachos and and saying, "Those are the kind of shoes that just scream, 'I have kinky sex but don't look like it.'"
Now that's a shoe. (I nearly spewed my fajita, too.)
]]>(In case you wondered, they are Stuart Weitzman's "Mocellent" loafers in 'fire.' My guess is that their production time is over, because they are becoming increasingly more difficult to find.)
It was the damn makeup, see.
Back in September 2003, I wrote about my unexpected discovery of the goodness of Birkenstock, otherwise known as shoes that actually fit (the entry 'hippie sandal-wearing freaks'). Since then, my momentary $50 splurge on off-white Birks has proven to be one of the wisest $50 expenditures in my adult life. I knew I had unusual feet, but I figured I just wasn't trying hard enough to find shoes that worked for me.
]]>It was the damn makeup, see.
Back in September 2003, I wrote about my unexpected discovery of the goodness of Birkenstock, otherwise known as shoes that actually fit (the entry 'hippie sandal-wearing freaks'). Since then, my momentary $50 splurge on off-white Birks has proven to be one of the wisest $50 expenditures in my adult life. I knew I had unusual feet, but I figured I just wasn't trying hard enough to find shoes that worked for me.
Then I took a recommendation from a tech staffer and went to Perimeter Mall for a MAC makeup consultation (June 2004, 'A red for everybody'). The easiest way to get to the store required me to—you guessed it—walk through Nordstrom. Nice store, I thought. (I'd never been in one before; they aren't terribly common in the South.) Lots of shoes, and lots of women buying them. Maybe I should look into this, and hope that I didn't pick up the shoe-hoarding gene, after all.
I went home, did a little research, and discovered that Nordstrom had rabid fans. We're talking cult following, altar sacrifices, the giving of firstborn, etc. I was a little confused. True, it had looked nice, but it looked like a department store. I've seen lots of those.
So I thought, what the hell. I plotted going to Perimeter Mall on my next trip of Atlanta, which was coincidentally coming up Real Soon Now. I figured I'd hit up DSW (supposedly this massive shoe warehouse) and Nordstrom, and if I was lucky, I'd come home with a pair of shoes that fit.
Apparently I looked lost when I walked into the shoe department, because the next thing I knew I was sitting down in this uberplushy chair and some fellow with an enormous smile had set down my backpack and packages for me was taking my shoes off for me.
"Sevens?" He tsked at me. Do people actually tsk out loud any more? Apparently this guy did. "Your feet are far too small for a seven. Let's measure to find out." I was about to open my mouth to blurt out my size, but the next thing I knew I was being guided to stand up, and there was the cold metal of the measure against first one foot, then the other. "Yes, definitely not sevens, but I see why you wore them. You probably can't find shoes that fit."
Goodness, was he cooing at me? "So, uh, what size should I wear?"
"Your feet are different sizes. Technically, you're a five and a half wide, with a high instep. Your left foot," at which point he gestured to the toes in question, "is a little longer, almost a six but not quite, but is just a little wide. Your right foot is a little shorter, a true five-and-a-half, but definitely a wide." He tapped the littlest toe on my right foot. "This is where most of your shoes break, isn't it?"
I nodded, then asked the question: "So … do you have anything I can wear?"
"Of course. What were you looking for?"
I think my jaw actually fell open at this point. What did he mean, 'of course'? I'd been looking for shoes for nearly six months, and it was this easy all along? I managed to blurt out "a pair of simple, classically-styled loafers" before he nodded and headed to the back.
I resisted the urge to bellow "and bring me my peeled grapes and a blond slaveboy!" But not by much.
When he came back out, he had not one, but three boxes. He was dumbfounded when I slipped my feet into the first one and—I am somewhat ashamed to admit this—actually jumped up and down and squealed when I realized they fit. They really fit. As did the second pair, and the third.
I chose one, the mid-level shoe, and asked if I could wear it out of the store. He grinned, and tucked the beastly sevens into the box before pulling up a chair.
"Now, let me tell you a few things. We carry a lot of shoes here, but your size is on the fringes, even for us. You are always going to have trouble finding shoes that you can wear. You will be able to go up to a 6 wide, and sometimes a 6.5 wide, in some shoes, but given your foot width and instep, there are likely to be some styles of shoes that you just cannot wear."
I nodded—there seemed to be a lot of that going on in this conversation—and kept listening.
"The good news is that you have an opportunity that most people don't. Because your shoe size is so rare, you are likely to have much better luck in clearance racks than most people. Your size will either be the first sold, or the last. If it is the last, you stand a good chance of getting truly good shoes at extraordinary discounts if you're prepared to look periodically. You won't be able to go out the night before a party and find the perfect shoes, but if you're patient, in time you will find what you want."
I still wanted my slaveboy, dammit.
"I'll box these sevens up for you." He grinned.
On my way out, my Nordstrom shopping bag swung gaily from my fingertips, and I marveled at something: the sound of my footsteps. Good-quality shoes make an unmistakable, solid sound when walked in, a solid tap against the ground that most cheaply-made shoes just can't duplicate.
I sent text messages to friends celebrating my discovery, and wandered off to buy tea.
When I returned, even though I had already made my purchase, I thought, Why not. I went to the clearance rack, even though it was the 'designer' clearance rack, and started looking around. I chuckled at the frivolous shoes, marveled at the pretty ones, and then spotted it.
I picked it up, and realized I was in serious, serious trouble.
But that's for the next story.
]]>Clothing. Needed. Now.
Somewhere in a snoozy doze I thought, hmm, maybe I should wander down to Hancock's and shop for fabric. A couple of simple skirts to go with my sweaters would make packing for long trips much, much easier. That is, I thought, if I could find anything I liked.
]]>Clothing. Needed. Now.
Somewhere in a snoozy doze I thought, hmm, maybe I should wander down to Hancock's and shop for fabric. A couple of simple skirts to go with my sweaters would make packing for long trips much, much easier. That is, I thought, if I could find anything I liked.
I like good fabrics for skirts. Silks. Rayons. Etc. Perhaps it's amusing that someone who dresses as plainly as me has a secret taste for luxury fabrics, but anyone who has stayed with me knows that I have about four pair of pajamas that are either satin or silk, all of which I absolutely adore. It's a personality quirk of mine, but I just happen to think that life is far too short to lounge around in itchy clothing.
So I went shopping, and there it was, sitting near the bridal section, shimmering away in my absolute favorite colors. If it had arms, it would be waving them at me, yelling, "I'm supposed to go home with you!"
Thankfully, clothing doesn't talk. That would just be disturbing.
My color palette of clothing is somewhat limited. I know what colors prevent me from looking cadaverous, and I stick to them: blues, greens, purples; neutrals like black, gray, and white; the occasional deep red when the mood strikes. Or, as I tell people who are trying to help me find clothes, "if it's a peacock color, chances are good that I'll wear it."
The rayon was a warp-one-color and weft-another, a blue-green in one direction and a purple in the other. My amusement was palpable when I lifted the fabric to find the price and discovered the fabric was named "Peacock."
Three yards came home with me. Wrist permitting, they'll be cut out tomorrow.†
Afterwards, I sat in the car, asking myself what the hell I'd done, plain-Jane-domesticat like me, buying such a shimmery blue-and-purple thing?
I decided to look for shoes.
Doesn't sound like much to you, I'm sure, but with the exception of dragon*con footwear, I generally purchase shoes once every other year. I order a pair of sneakers made to fit my oddball tiny feet, and wear them until they are just about ready to fall apart. When they show signs of imminent demise, successors are ordered.
I don't just decide to go out and buy shoes any more than I suddenly decide to invade Bermuda just because it's a sunny Saturday afternoon.
After a year or two of urging, I decided to try out the Birkenstock store. I last had a pair of sandals my freshman year of college; they were comfortable, but utterly destructive on my feet, and I never knew why. All I knew is that even though they were the right size, they would never stay on my feet. Eventually I gave them up, chalking myself up as another lonely loser in the land of sensible footwear, and went back to sneakers.
I walked in, and explained my problem to the woman at the store. She asked, "Do you mind if I take a look at your feet for a second? I might be able to tell you what went wrong."
I don't much care for my feet. You try inheriting a set of overlapping toes on your left foot and explaining to your friends why you leave a four-toed footprint at the pool, and you'll keep your socks on all the time, too. Besides, they're tiny, pudgy, funny little smidges of things, but hey, they're mine, and they don't hurt, so I'm keeping them.
I shucked the shoes and socks. There are many places in which to have dignity, but a shoe store isn't one of them.
"Hmm. Really wide around the base of the toe, but that's not a problem." She turned my left foot, staring intently, while I tried to ignore the fact that I was letting a random stranger actually touch my feet, which I personally find just a little creepy. "Oh, here's your problem."
She drew her finger down the side of my foot. "You have a really, really high instep. By the time you find a shoe that's wide enough to accommodate the base of your toes, and wide enough to accommodate your instep, they practically fall off your feet." She accurately described a phenomenon I'd dealt with for years: for shoes with laces, by the time I had the laces tight enough that my foot would not slip, sometimes my toes would fall asleep.
I just always thought I was weird. Turns out some forms of weird have a name.
She had me try on a few pair of shoes with straps around the heel, and managed to repeatedly demonstrate the problem I'd known about for years. "See? You can't even buckle these around your foot, because of how high your instep is. However, I think I've got some shoes here that I got from Germany that just might fit your feet."
One by one, she slid my feet into a pair of off-white sandals. Surprisingly enough, the strap over the top of my foot buckled. Shoes just don't do that; not for me, anyhow. I walked around and it felt - strange. The footbeds obviously weren't molded to my feet, but these were shoes that I didn't have to fight to put on.
They were $50. I hadn't planned on buying the shoes, but I counted up the years I'd spent wishing I had a pair of sandals that fit, and paid for the shoes.
I called my Birkenstock-proponent friends, all of whom were highly amused. I heard "Welcome to the cult!" four separate times (along with instructions from Andy about how I'd need to self-tattoo my new bar code onto my forehead).
"Hey, guess what! I guess you can classify me as one of those hippie sandal-wearing freaks!"
"No, sweetie, you're going to have to put a lot more patchouli in your hair for that to happen."
My toenails are red now, and I have sandals. This is lovely.
* * * * *
†Now if I can just get the humidity to go down a bit. 65°F (18.3°C) and 93% humidity can mean only one thing: an Ace bandage on my right wrist. That's what I get for breaking it twice in a single lifetime. Normally, weather changes don't bother it, but tonight appears to be an exception. Protective wrappings and slight doses of anti-inflammatory drugs are lovely things, indeed!
]]>Current music: Coldplay's A Rush of Blood To The Head and Jonatha Brooke's Plumb.