DID SOMEBODY WALLPAPER THIS SHOE?
This much I know for sure: When it comes to buying shoes, I am a freak of nature. My feminine mystique is flawed; I DETEST buying shoes. I simply loathe the process. I dislike nearly every style of shoe most women fawn over. Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik have never set foot in my closet! The heel better not be over an inch and it better be really wide and flat. I am not tip-toing around on pencil points just to look sexy when Mick Jagger clearly has the strut down pat.
So this past Saturday as I made my annual pilgrimage to buy a pair of everyday shoes for 2013, I soon felt the old familiar dread of having to part with many dollars for a smidge of leather and sole. I watched as members of my own species lovingly caressed and then purchased multiple boxes of these towers of pain. Some unique pumps actually had spikes on the straps and reinforced metal toe straps in case you have a rabid case of PMS I suppose. They were even paired with a matching clutch bag that had handles shaped like an old pair of brass knuckles.
I walked down every aisle. I mentally told myself be more open-minded, less judgmental, and appreciative of today’s trend setters! Still, whenever I would quizzically pick up a pair of 7-inch heels, I could only think of two things: Nail guns. And super models who’ve never experienced a three digit number on a scale.
Why would women want to buckle six straps across? I NEVER have enough time to buckle or tie shoes, unless they’re gym shoes that I can just kind of mash into. I especially hate pumps that squeeze my sides and constrict my toes like a boa constrictor who just engulfed a plump goat. It makes my metatarsus spill over the sides like a loaf of sausage that’s exploded out of its wrapper.
In fact I pretty much only like boots. Cowgirl boots are the best looking. They pair nicely with all things denim (especially Daisy Dukes if you’re young and skinny), dress slacks, and occasionally a dress or skirt, but they’re expensive. I found several pairs, but all were well over $100, so I kept on walking.
What I really wanted, but didn’t find, was a replacement pair that matched my current generic, common-sensical, goes-with-everything ,easy-to-slip-into, basic black faux sheepskin-lined, PETA approved version of flat-footed black suede boots. I wear them with everything! Jeans. Sweats. ALL my dress pants to church, which is pretty much the only time I dress up. They are comfy, like an old pair of sweats. They are homely and plain and would pair nicely with Jane Eyre’s wardrobe on any given day.
Don’t get me wrong. I like to get all dolled up–SOMETIMES. Weddings. Rare social occasions. Ten minute pause here to see if I could think of anymore instances. Nope. That’s it.
I’m growing older, perhaps wiser, and losing my desire to impress! After all, I’ve been married for nearly 30 years. I’m not in the market. But still, I do like to at least appear presentable, even pulled together if you will, if I have a social engagement such as friends or family coming to visit.
I just don’t need to look like someone in a catalog. I am not a woman who likes to go shopping. I’d rather clean the litterbox! Honestly! Unless there is a store where the shoes or clothes are discounted with the price tag of FREE on it, I’m just not that into it. I especially don’t like shopping for clothes with other women!! Especially at THE MALL. Coffee? Yes. Clothes? No way! The goal is to get in the store and get out as fast and cheaply as possible.
I know I must be an aberration to my sisterhood. I know my husband should be more grateful that I’m not a shopper, but since he’s never known differently, he doesn’t know just how extreme the shoe or clothes-shopping disease could be. I don’t have a designer bag, glasses, or shoes. I don’t know how to accessorize.
I have to daily fight the urge to not be completely frumpy! Yet these few things make me feel feminine: Make up. Support wear. Sundresses.
Most days I wear make up. Oh how I love these three things: Eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. Captain Jack Sparrow is my role model for eyeliner! And anything with the name plum on the lipstick color is good enough for me. The lips make the woman I recently told my husband. Yep he said as the basketball tournament continued working its hypnotic magic on him.
I like Victoria’s Secret because they construct bras with the same attention to design detail as the engineers who designed the Eiffel Tower. Lots of steel and wire to create a structural work of art. Good old Vicki S. can embellish what a woman lacks and diminish what God abundantly blesses a woman with. And yet, if I’m strolling the aisles of any big retail giant on a quick trip to buy toilet paper, pizza rolls, caulk, and a new plunger, I have to admit if I see a bra for only $7.99 under a flashing blue light special, I’m there quicker than a fly on stink! At that moment, a part of my heart leaps for joy! It’s probably similar to the thrill of the kill a hunter experiences. I am DonaldineTrump; hear me roar as I master the Art of the Deal!!
I still eek out enough estrogen on most days to be moderately hormonal, but never so much I’m impractical! I shudder to think there were once radical women who threw perfectly decent bras into bonfires to make a political point. Such foolishness!
I once heard Maya Angelou say something profound about “the sisters” after you reach a certain age: It’s basically a race to see which side gets to the bottom first. With that concept in mind, why would any woman want others to know which side is winning? So yes, on a feminist scale, I’d definitely say I’m pro-bra!
In the summer, I love to wear sundresses if I’m tan with just my bare feet as my walk about look or possibly jeweled thong sandals or even flat strappy things that are just slightly girly. But no heels please! I love painted toenails too. Toe rings? All the better, if you can adjust to their constriction. A wide-brimmed sunhat and some Jackie O-like sunglasses completes the deal. Sundresses are great if you have a tasteful tattoo (though I just missed that boat; I really am getting old!) I love colorful nicely crafted tatts of faces, crosses, roses, ornate butterflies, names written in Gothic script, or scripted verses. But the rose-laden vine crawling in and out of skulls is a little over the top, as are the rose-wrapped swords (that just reminds me of all the yardwork I’m behind on!)
All that being said, WHO AM I TO JUDGE? I don’t. For one simple reason. I really am part of a diverse sisterhood of friends and family! Skinny ones. Plump ones. Barbie doll pretty and long-summer-at-sea faces if they have been blessed with many years. Career girls. Inky girls. Creamy girls. Runner girls. Housewives. Soccer moms. Women writers. Bohemian artist chicks! I’ve known and loved them all as we’ve journeyed through life.
I think I’m at a good place in life these days. I don’t need feminine charms to assist me in any goals I set. But I don’t feel lacking as a lady either. I know my feminism isn’t found in the clothes I wear, the make-up I apply, or the shape (or lack thereof) of my body. It’s quantified by the love I can freely give, the beauty that GROWS in my heart each day as I see the uniqueness of others, the pearls of wisdom gleaned from a single tear, and the joy found in appreciating each moment that God gives me. He made me female in all its majesty and mystery. I am woman. Hear me laugh. Watch me do. See me love. This is the mystique I was born for.