Not Exactly Imelda Marcos, But I Try

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So I was tempted to drive up to my cousin’s today.  I want to, but she’s got to run off in the morning and it’s a long drive for that short of a visit.  Happy birthday anyway cousin!  See you soon!

Instead I’ll be combing Greater Vantucky for a decent pair of shoes.  It’s been two years since I bought a pair of fall/winter work shoes and those are getting pretty worn out and scruffy-looking.

I have “rather more unusual” feet, of which I will not be posting any photos.  I would apologize to foot fetishists but these feet would turn them from their fetishes anyway so in a way I’m doing them a favor.  At any rate they are difficult to fit and my shoe options are limited to say the least.  Keen sandals, which I love so very moishe and which come in such wonderful colors?  Nope.  Dansko clogs, the iconic footwear of nurses worldwide?  Nope.  Strappy little sandals?  No.  Espadrilles?  No.  Anything fashionable or attractive?  Not so much.

Of course this speaks volumes of the inadequacies of modern shoe design and how most fashionable footwear is very hard on a normal foot, let alone something like mine (wide, flat, afflicted with bunions, etc).  But that’s fodder for a serious post, and this is usually not a terribly serious blog, so feel free to google the crap out of that kind of thing on your own time.

It is my intent to hit a few specialty footwear stores today.  I plan on taking a leisurely, circuitous route.  I will be child-free and completely solo.  This is the case every other weekend for a wanton 36 hours, minus the time The Lovely Rhonda drags herself home from work, bolts the dinner I’ve made for her (if in fact I have done so), and immediately retires.  She works a demanding 12-hour day and drives nearly an hour each direction, so there’s not a lot of time left over for much more than polite conversation.

At first this weekend freedom made for rowdy celebration and mad socializing on my part, but anymore I’m kind of bored and listless.  I end up doing housework and running errands.  This is more fair anyway since TLR spends her days off cleaning and running errands with children.  *shudder*

Last night neither of us could sleep so we laid around talking about things and the subject of shoe shopping came up.  Entering a shoe store and unveiling these feet is rather like throwing down a gauntlet.  Go ahead, try to find shoes that fit, are comfortable, and are not too hideous, they say to the salespeople.  I dare you. 

We imagined the lesser clerks fleeing in horror and hitting the big red button on the wall that makes the sirens and lights go off.  OOH GAH OOH GAH *flash flash flash* OOH GAH OOH GAH OOH GAH  And the shop’s most senior clerk is summoned for a special consultation.  A hush falls over the shoe store and mothers cover their children’s eyes.  A tall, commanding gay man with a pencil-thin mustache strides in, fussily shooing the rest of the staff away so he can complete a thorough assessment of my cloven hooves.  “THE BRANNOCK DEVICE!  AND HURRY!”  he would shout.  Spittle would fly from his mouth as he barked commands.  Boxes of shoes would be hastily brought, rejects thrown back in the minions’ faces, forehead sweat would be wiped away on the clerk’s forearm sleeve, etc, until finally a shaft of heavenly light would pierce the store’s ceiling and shine down upon my proffered foot, shod in a stylish, durable, comfortable shoe that came at a reasonable price.  The angels would chorus and I would drive away weeping with joy.

Yeah, that never happens.  But a girl can dream.

 

 

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