Fancy Shoes

I've been thinking a lot about shoes lately.

Now that Oliver is officially, officially walking, and it's offically, officially nasty outside, the boy is wearing shoes. At 16 months old, one might not think that shoes would be a novel thing. But really, up until now he was either dragging himself across the floor, cruising in a stroller, lying in a crib, or being snuggled. None of these activities require shoes. "Aren't his little feet cold?" women of a certain age would ask with a "tsk, tsk" in their voice.

I wanted to respond with one of the following:

1) "Why yes, in fact, they are like blocks of ice- and look, they're turning blue! Do you have any advice on what I should do about it?"

2) "Not as cold as when I make him crawl to the mailbox barefoot in the snow."

3) "How's the circulation in your feet?"

4) Just punch the person.

That's mean. But that's what I played out in my head.

Our favorite shoes- (which is only one of two pairs that we own, because seriously, he will outgrow them in 5, 4, 3, 2...) are navy blue, sturdy, with a velcro strap. My good friend at work gave them to us as a baby gift, having researched that these shoes were made for beginning walkers. We put them on and he swings his little legs back and forth, staring at his shoes as if they were made of Nilla Wafers. Which he loves, and may also explain why he pulls his feet up to his mouth and occasionally gives them a little lick.

I myself am not a shoe girl. Not really into bags, either. I think I might be the only one that exists like that. I remind Michael frequently about how lucky he is that he has me for a wife: I spend, like, so much less money than the average girl. My shoes are not ugly, but they are practical. I must have some brown-type shoes, some black shoes, and a pair of sandals. Oh and tennies. Yes, I just said "tennies." I like slippers, too. And fuzzy socks. I do not own a single pair of heels. If you asked me if I prefered kitten heels to sling-backs, I would ask you to draw me a picture.

When I was pregnant, I gave in and bought Crocs. Two pairs, actually, because as I just said, I need a brownish color and a black color. My feet were expanding along with the rest of me; the loosest socks left crevaces around my cankles. After Oliver arrived, the canckles disappeared but the size of my feet did not change. I'm still really bummed about this. I liked my little size 6 feet, and now I'm a 7 1/2 - 8. Countless girls have said to me, "well hey, now you've got an excuse then to go buy all kinds of new shoes!" Yay. (Sigh)...I liked my old shoes. I liked my old feet. Now they're all big- oh, okay, average- and with toenail problems. If I have to have one more toe surgery I may consider removal of the toe all together. Hmmm, maybe that will get me back to a size 6 shoe...

So I wore those pregnancy Crocs for a while, 'cause going shoe shopping didn't make the priority list when I became seriously ill after my C-section. When I recovered enough to begin re-entering the world, I went to a Twins game with a group of friends. Some of them I knew, most of them I did not. In attempts to be social, I jokingly apologized to the girl next to me for my Crocs. I self-depricatingly identified to this girl, who I had just met, that I was clearly a new mom who hadn't taken time for herself, as evidenced by my footwear.

"Yyyyeah...I have to say, that's pretty bad."

Um...what? I know the Swiss-cheese plastic look isn't hot, I know I just teased myself about it, but I didn't even know this girl 5 minutes ago, and did I mention that we were in the Metrodome? As in, not clubbing downtown? RUDE!

This girl went on to say, "But isn't your kid like 2 months old? You're home all the time on maternity leave, and you haven't taken the time to buy a pair of shoes?"

I wanted to respond with one of the following:

1) Crying.

2) "Gee I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that the Metrodome had a dress code."

3) "It's terrible, I know. I've been spending my time trying to pump for breast milk that won't come in, feeding my son every two hours, giving myself IV medications, reaching for my Percocet after climbing the stairs one at a time, popping Gas-X, eating something, and taking a washcloth to my armpits to at least feign the essense of a shower before taking a 10 minute nap. I should totally be focusing my energies on shoe fashion, for after all, that is what really matters."

4) Buying a malt cup from the sweaty vendor in the aisle and dumping it onto her head.

But that's mean.

My office is in a medical office building that houses two or three other clinics. One of them is an orthopoedic clinic, and so the elevator is often shared with patients carrying back braces or pushing walkers. The elevator doors opened up for one such patient today, a woman in her 50s with straggly blonde hair and layers of make-up. She smiled and asked me how to get to the garage. I told her, and pressed the button for "1" as she thanked me with a genuine smile that caught my attention. There was a sweet innocence about this woman, something simple and pure. Despite her tousled appearance, she was peaceful, intentional, and happy. It occurred to me in that elevator ride that she was a bit developmentally delayed, acting decades younger than her appearance gave away. She turned to me with a flash of excitement in her eyes.

"I got fancy shoes today!" She said to me. "You know, with the insert things in them?!"

You'd have thought she was telling me that she just bought a sports car. The elevator doors opened to "1" as she smiled and said to me again, "Thank you!", and walked towards the garage.

I couldn't care less whether or not I ever own a pair of designer shoes, shiny shoes, or some trendy heels. My Crocs make me happy. God bless that woman today, and her fancy new shoes.