My Mid Life Crisis Shoes



I like to call them my “Mid Life Crisis” shoes. We all have a pair of completely irresponsible shoes in our closets. These are a back ache waiting to happen. After perusing fashion magazines I started to take a liking to what my husband calls “Gladiator Sandals”. He hates these shoes. I chose this patent leather pair last New Years Eve as I was looking for something to go with a black dress and thought these screamed sexy, like I am 20 and sexy...like I never take off these shoes and when I do I unzip them sexy. Yes you read that right they zip up, how risqué I thought. I didn’t hesitate to bring them home and debut them on the first New Years I headed out of the house in like ten years. These would go perfect with a whip of some sort, oh the possibilities. They held up on the dance floor for the first hour then into the second and third. By that time they were sort of digging into my toes but when a stranger came up to say “love the shoes” I quit caring. When I tumbled down three steps leaving the festivities I brushed it off and regained my composure. Me and those shoes, we had quite a night. The next morning I started to make my way down the stairs when I my legs said otherwise. If you have even had shin splints this is as close as I can come to describing the pain in the front of my legs. My toes were a whole other story. The patent leather had cut into the front of every single one of them, and when I was bandaging them up I noticed my toenail was hanging there half way off. I finally made a game time decision to remove it completely, it wasn’t pretty. Apparently that tumble did a little more damage than I had thought. I set those dirty shoes on the top shelf of my closet and it was a good couple of months till I would pay them a visit. This time I decided to throw them on for work. They didn’t look as racy when paired with slacks and like a lover scorned I had gotten over and forgotten about all the pain and hurt they caused. While sitting at my desk I happened to notice that the little rubber pads at the end of the heels had worn themselves off and all that was left were little metal spikes where the leather was scraped off. From just one wear. The stitching was starting to fray between the slats. Later on that evening I stopped by the grocery store and you could hear me coming from 5 isles away, click clack click clack and for some odd reason my feet were sliding around in them as my toes took a beating. I can’t bear the thought of giving these off to the Goodwill for some poor unsuspecting soul to pick up and repair. What a cruel joke that would be, so there they are back on their resident shelf peeking out at me. From time to time I consider throwing them on and yet I don’t. They rest quietly beside the blue moccasins I begged my husband to buy for me on Mothers Day three years ago and wore once. To the left are the Keds I purchased this spring when retro Keds became cool again and I thought maybe I’d wear them, a  throwback style to my middle school days , I  put them on once and thought.. yuck. Under them are 2 pairs of Converse, one with sequins that slip on that I wore downstairs and back up to the bedroom, and a pair of K Swiss’ with the laces removed, because that’s how  the guys in Run DMC used to wear them..And yet I can’t bring myself to toss them out as if I am afraid to crossover to that person that wears only comfortable shoes. But just like the hoop earrings in the shape of hearts, the hats that never got worn or the numerous pashminas that lurk in the corners these are memories of little snippets of my life buried behind closed doors waiting to be rediscovered someday by a granddaughter who wants to play dress up or a son who thinks it’s funny to walk around in his mothers shoes much to her dismay or the woman who too often forgets that comfort and practicality don’t apply when it comes to looking good  and feeling young and takes them out for once last dance.

Embarrassment

Ah my most embarrassing moment, it is hard to pick just one. When I look back to some of the most humiliating times in my life, aside from the epic slip in the mall circa 1985 which almost sent my girlfriend into convulsions from laughing so hard, I find that my most embarrassing times have something to do with my panties. I have never been a jeans and sneakers kind of gal and have lived most of my life in sundresses and skirts which may account for the fact that out of three boys each one has had a fascination at one time or the other with lifting up my dress and watching me shriek in horror. My oldest son in particular around the age of 5 went through this stage. It happened first at a family gathering in a room full of people then at a Macys. I learned to pick up on his cues, he would usually circle around me once or twice with a coy look on his face, that’s how I knew it was coming. He would reach for the hem with faster than lightening speed and before I knew it I was standing there red faced in a panic afraid to look down for fear of what I was wearing down below.. (please god let this not be a spanx day). I learned pretty quick how to block these random attacks with the precision and skill of a taekwondo expert and eventually he cooled it, that is until the day I realized he was just sitting, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. His brother was just born three days prior. Like many moms straight out of the hospital I was operating in a state of virtual unconsciousness, a creature of the night at the mercy of a newborn who wanted to eat every three hours. My attire consisted of nursing bras and whatever nightgowns I could throw over my head which would likely  be ruined less than 24 hrs later. I was enjoying a relaxing moment, sleeping newborn in my arms watching the Young & The Restless (those were the days) when the door bell rings. I adjust the baby in my arms and shuffle off to answer to the UPS man standing there with a package he needs to have signed for. Then HE appears running excitedly for the door, a grin from ear to ear hiding his little devil horns behind a weft of golden hair. As I am pulling the balancing act of holding an infant and trying  to sign my name with two fingers that’s when it happens. He looks at me I look at him our eyes meet for a second and then it is all in slow motion from there. He lifts up my nightgown and not a little lift either, more like a yank. One last hurrah for the kid who finally wants to make it known, he got the last word ..he got me. My response time was delayed I don’t notice the nightgown up until I look up at the red faced delivery driver, then I hear wild laughter, that’s when I look down. I have no free hands I wiggle back and forth try to kick him out of the way as he’s still holding my dress up. I spin around finally free from his grasp  I mumble an apology to the UPS guy and begin to consider torture as an acceptable means of punishment for a 5 year old. This must have been the jewel in his crown, catching me off guard fresh from having a baby, muscles lax, granny panties because that’s all that would fit. Needless to say I was mortified and he took off running for his life. The poor old UPS driver, I think he may have been even more embarrassed than I. Thank god my oldest who was the worst offender grew out of this stage, I am sure he was just vying for my attention or thought it funny to see my reaction. At least I was able to see it coming, much unlike my youngest son who is 5 who apparently likes to get behind me and lift up my dress from behind and cover his face, on a busy playground while I unsuspectingly talk to his teacher for god knows how long before I notice I am mooning the other children and their parents.