I went shoe shopping today, which for me is huge. I’m not a shoe girl, never have been. I really wish I could be one of those classy women who practically lives in heels, whether attending a PTA meeting, a client meeting or going grocery shopping, and look smoking hot while do it. But I’m not. The flatter the better. Anything higher that a 1 inch platform and I stagger around like a raging drunk while being stone cold sober. And the pain! Ugh, the pain that shoots through my feet, ankles and knees is worse than childbirth. Nothing is less sexy than falling on your face while swearing like a sailor and screaming loud enough to wake the dead.
Jimmy Who? Manolo Blahblah. Christian Loubouhoohoo ~ no matter how European your name sounds or how well the shoes are made, I can’t wear your shit.
When it comes to shoes, I’ve always had simple taste, and am happy with something I find at the local box store. I’d rather spend good money on vacations, great wine and amazing food. Having cute shoes on my feet is just extra icing on the cake. And if you judge someone by his or her shoes, well, then you clearly have other issues that should be talked out in therapy.
Are you familiar with Patrick Bateman from American Psycho? ‘Nuff said.
So after deciding on a cute pair of patent leather ballet flats, I decided to head over to the clearance racks, hoping to score some out-of-season goodies. After grabbing a dozen items in my size and heading to the dressing room, then the hell began.
Apparently, the size I thought I was, the Target corporation doesn’t actually agree with. I already know that I am not exactly supermodel measurements, but when everything is 3 inches too long and 2 cup sizes small in the bust, it can break a woman’s soul. I picked up each piece of clothing that I threw to the floor in a frustrated rage, just to be sure I grabbed the proper size. Sure enough, they were. Or at least the size I thought I was.
I began to wonder, do I have a completely warped sense of body image, or are these clothing manufacturers fucking with me?
We all tend to see ourselves differently than how we truly may be. At 41, I’ve been told I look 30, tops. My sense of humor and lifestyle certainly reflect someone a decade younger. As short as I am, there are days I feel 6 feet tall. It’s a known fact that I wear a 12/14, but some days I feel more like an 8/10….and other days where I’m convinced my clothing size could reach triple digits. My attitude swings from ‘this body is what I’ve got, so deal with it’ to ‘dear lawd, I need to clean up my act and get in shape.’ It’s a vicious circle, leaving me in tears in the fitting room, surrounded by cute clothes I can’t fit into. I’m sure the security cameras captured my mini-breakdown, complete with drooling, mumbling profanities and rubbing my well-worn yoga pants like a security blanket.
And all I wanted was a cute pair of shoes.