Things slip up on you when you hit middle age.
One moment it's the 4th of July; the next, it's Christmas. One day you're 35, worrying about the dreaded "40" and wrinkles. The next, you can't even remember how old you are, and where the hell are those 5 pairs of reading glasses?
I remember, in my younger days, wondering how my elders managed to become so slovenly and disheveled. I'd see pictures of their "hey days" and they'd be quite the fashion plates. And yet, here they were, walking around in torn mumu-style housedresses and those shoes...those black witchy-poo lace-up crepe soled horrors...the so-called "comfortable" ones...the only ones that would fit over their bunions and corns. How could they Let Themselves Go, I wondered, as I balanced precariously in my pointy-toed, high heeled two-toned ankle boots. Why don't they throw out that ancient dimestore makeup, and style that silver fly-away hair, and pumice those crusty feet, and buy a decent outfit from somewhere other than Wal-Mart once every 3 and a half years?
Middle age is that time of life when you glance in the mirror and startle yourself. You just saw a ghost, your Mom or your Grandmother. When you realize it's actually you, well, your jaw drops (just like the rest of you apparently did when you weren't looking.) You try to remember, when was the last time you styled your hair? Or bought a new pair of shoes? Or wore make up? And you realize, you can't remember! Maybe because it's been that long ago, or perhaps because your short term memory is patchy. And then you realize that frankly, you really don't give a crap anyway. That, of course, is something the 20-year-old you could never, ever imagine.
At 30, you vowed to never, ever wear those black old-lady shoes. Not the crepe-y soled things, not EVER. We can grow old and still be hip! you declare, announcing plans to design funky "comfy shoes," with big bows and polka dots like Minnie Mouse, or motorcycle boots, all with crepe-y soles. Just because it's comfortable doesn't mean it must be butt-ugly! You kick up your heels and laugh in the face of TIME!
In the blink of an eye, decades fly by, and you find yourself shopping with your sister at the shoe warehouse. For hours, you browse. At first you admire the stylish ones, but you don't try them on. You have no place to wear them, and besides your feet hurt too bad to even consider it. You head straight for the "sensible" walking shoe area. One pair after another, you try them on. Not very attractive, nothing special...and nothing fits! In the entire shoe warehouse, not a pair can be found to fit your decrepit time-worn tootsies.
Then you spot them, at the end of an aisle. Basic black. Sensible. Lace-up, crepe-sole; "The World Traveler" reads the tag. They have a name! (At least it doesn't say The World-Weary Traveler.")
"I dare you to try them on," says your sister. Then, as she studies her feet, "What about these hot pink shoes? Am I too old for hot pink shoes?"
Nope, not yet. Just can't bring myself to do it.
Instead, we try on wacky studded Vegas-style hats, and she buys the pink shoes, and I buy a spring green bag.
But I keep thinking about those shoes. God, they might just fit. The only pair in the mega-warehouse. That explains why every "old lady" owns a pair...
They do look pretty comfy...
I wonder what they'd look like if I spray painted them silver?
One moment it's the 4th of July; the next, it's Christmas. One day you're 35, worrying about the dreaded "40" and wrinkles. The next, you can't even remember how old you are, and where the hell are those 5 pairs of reading glasses?
I remember, in my younger days, wondering how my elders managed to become so slovenly and disheveled. I'd see pictures of their "hey days" and they'd be quite the fashion plates. And yet, here they were, walking around in torn mumu-style housedresses and those shoes...those black witchy-poo lace-up crepe soled horrors...the so-called "comfortable" ones...the only ones that would fit over their bunions and corns. How could they Let Themselves Go, I wondered, as I balanced precariously in my pointy-toed, high heeled two-toned ankle boots. Why don't they throw out that ancient dimestore makeup, and style that silver fly-away hair, and pumice those crusty feet, and buy a decent outfit from somewhere other than Wal-Mart once every 3 and a half years?
Middle age is that time of life when you glance in the mirror and startle yourself. You just saw a ghost, your Mom or your Grandmother. When you realize it's actually you, well, your jaw drops (just like the rest of you apparently did when you weren't looking.) You try to remember, when was the last time you styled your hair? Or bought a new pair of shoes? Or wore make up? And you realize, you can't remember! Maybe because it's been that long ago, or perhaps because your short term memory is patchy. And then you realize that frankly, you really don't give a crap anyway. That, of course, is something the 20-year-old you could never, ever imagine.
At 30, you vowed to never, ever wear those black old-lady shoes. Not the crepe-y soled things, not EVER. We can grow old and still be hip! you declare, announcing plans to design funky "comfy shoes," with big bows and polka dots like Minnie Mouse, or motorcycle boots, all with crepe-y soles. Just because it's comfortable doesn't mean it must be butt-ugly! You kick up your heels and laugh in the face of TIME!
In the blink of an eye, decades fly by, and you find yourself shopping with your sister at the shoe warehouse. For hours, you browse. At first you admire the stylish ones, but you don't try them on. You have no place to wear them, and besides your feet hurt too bad to even consider it. You head straight for the "sensible" walking shoe area. One pair after another, you try them on. Not very attractive, nothing special...and nothing fits! In the entire shoe warehouse, not a pair can be found to fit your decrepit time-worn tootsies.
Then you spot them, at the end of an aisle. Basic black. Sensible. Lace-up, crepe-sole; "The World Traveler" reads the tag. They have a name! (At least it doesn't say The World-Weary Traveler.")
"I dare you to try them on," says your sister. Then, as she studies her feet, "What about these hot pink shoes? Am I too old for hot pink shoes?"
Nope, not yet. Just can't bring myself to do it.
Instead, we try on wacky studded Vegas-style hats, and she buys the pink shoes, and I buy a spring green bag.
But I keep thinking about those shoes. God, they might just fit. The only pair in the mega-warehouse. That explains why every "old lady" owns a pair...
They do look pretty comfy...
I wonder what they'd look like if I spray painted them silver?
