Shoes Are The Enemy

May 24, 2012

I’ve alway been a big fan of footwear. From the second I took my first steps, you were pretty much guaranteed to find me rummaging through my mothers wardrobe, stealing her heels so I could sashay around the house acting all toddler mature, trying to hold “grown up” conversations with my line up of stuffed toys and refusing the advances of my older bothers Action Man figurine. Oh yes, I’ve always had quite the imagination and an innate ability to talk to myself. Adorable between the ages of 3-8 yrs old, but beyond that and the world is quick to whip its head around and give you a look that screams “daaang, that b*#ch is crazy” and its possible the world may have a point.

These days however, the relationship between me and my precious footwear has become strained. My ever growing Buddah has made it so. Its slim pickins all around as I alternate between flip-flops and ballet flats. Anything with a lace, buckle or fancy strap is now the enemy. I just don’t have the 9.5 minutes it takes per foot, nor the flexibility to navigate such complexities up and around my stomach and onto my feet. And lets not even mention the effect such a task has on my breathing. One would be excused for assuming I was on the finally approach to the submit of Mount Everest, sans oxygen tank. Yes, right now the smallest of tasks feel completely insurmountable and for someone who is largely independent, fiercely opinionated and stubborn, I fear I may be coming dangerously close to a point where I’ll be forced to swallow my pride and start leaning on The Husband as my official shoe put’er on’er, as well as the designated glass of water getter, and quite possibly the certified hoister of anything and everything I need to be hoisted out of i.e bed, or off of i.e couch.

Leave a Reply