I have two whole posts for today; let's see if I can get them all written in time before I head off to bed after a long night at work!
No Wordles for me today, thank you very much!
Both of today's posts are responses to prompts from Lightening & the Lightening Bug.
This first one is the Flicker of Inspiration Prompt #6: "These Shoes Were Made for Talking." Here are the instructions:
We all have a pair of shoes that tell a story. It may be a story remembered or a story that never happened, but shoes can speak volumes, after all they've walked many miles. This week we want you to take a picture of your favorite pair of shoes (or a pair of shoes with a story) and tell the story of those shoes. Where have they been? Where will they take you? Let the shoes do the talking!
Love Me, Love My Shoes
In my baby pictures you see me lollygagging in my stroller or on Grandma's lap, one foot straight and bare, and the other dangling at an odd angle, clad in a very solid-looking white leather shoe. I was born with my left foot turned inward, and the doctor (the pediatric podiatrist! Say that three times fast!) had me in corrective growth shoes (or, rather, shoe) before I even learned to walk.
In first grade, these corrective shoes appeared on my feet in the form of what would today be considered adorable Doc Marten-style Mary Jane saddle shoes. However, at the time, Doc Marten-style Mary Jane saddle shoes were considered totally not adorable. I was made fun of relentlessly for those shoes, and if it weren't for the fact that I finally figured out how to win over half the class with my help during Tutor Time, well? Surely I would have been forever dubbed a social leper. Instead, the focus on my shoes shifted to my ....um, grades, and I was dubbed "the brain." Being the brain wasn't so bad. I got picked last for softball, but first for Tutor Time and all other cerebral classroom activities. And kids stopped caring so much about what my shoes looked like.
In the third grade, I graduated from wearing corrective shoes, and the loathed $300 prescription pains-in-my-butt were finally retired. However, over time I had developed a compensatory habit of walking with my right foot turned outward, since my left foot never really made it anywhere past straight-dead-ahead. This only stood to augment my growing awkwardness.
By the time fifth grade rolled around, the awkwardness had all but taken over every aspect of my being. That straight left foot turned out to be just about the only straight thing on me. 80's bangs, braces, training-bra-bumps. Elbows and knees. It seemed like everything on my skinny, gawky body flailed every which way, sticking out at random angles. And that one, now-perfect foot was my only link to normalcy.
Because of this fact, I became a full-blown klutz. In the seventh grade I broke my first ankle. I had been windsurfing all day at Paris Lake (in Fresno County, CA) with my darling friend Melissa. (Remember that Mel? Ahhh, good times. Good times. ;D) At the end of the day, (after perfectly good attempts at windsurfing, without incident, mind you) as the sun sat low over the water, we were called to join her family at the picnic tables for dinner. We ran along the sidewalk in our bare feet, laughing merrily along. Suddenly, mid-jump, I noticed the anthill over which I had jumped was actually larger than I'd anticipated. So, like any totally uncoordinated 13-year-old would do, I attempted to extend my jump while still in midair. Result: Broken ankle.
Fast forward a month. We're back in school after I spent August cooped up in the house with crutches. We live in the San Bernardino Mountains, where there's no such thing as a building without stairs. After class one day I get all impatient, and decide to brave the droves of students teeming the ridiculously long staircase. I hobble down against traffic, forcing my crutches ahead of me to find solid ground at each step. And I trip over someone's foot. Down I went, and at the bottom I could be heard to cry out, "Ouch! My ankle!!" ....Only it wasn't the ankle I had twisted to smithereens at the lake. Nope, it was my other ankle.
Enter 6-week stint in a wheelchair. And did I mention I was 13? Yes, that's right. It was that beautiful time in every girl's life, that wondrous rite of passage ....when she discovers just how bad it sucks to be a woman. Enough said, to be sure.
At this point you can fast forward several years, through high school, rebellious party years, college and two marriages (the second one--in case you're just now tuning into my blog--being my current and permanent one, just for the record) two marriages later. Here I am, having broken both ankles again ....a few times.
No, I don't care to mention exactly how many. Nor do I feel like giving up the deets on what in the living tarnation I was doing to break them.... except to say that it always involved my shoes. Without fail.
High heels, usually. Tall shoes, as it so happens, are the bane of my existence.
They make me look slimmer, but they make me get injured. Oy! It's sixes!! What's a girl to do???
Well, I'll tell you what that girl's mom used to do - She used to throw them away. Every time I'd get hurt again, if she was living in the same state? She'd go straight for my closet and pick them up with a look on her face that said, "Eden you know I never get mad, so when you see me this mad? Get. Out. Of. My. Way." And then she'd march straight out to the trash (without even considering donating them to charity! the nerve!) and that was that. Once I tried to retrieve them from the stinky clutches of the garbage can. Once.
Anyway, the point I am trying to make here is this:
Every time I broke, twisted or sprained something on one of my poor, mangled feet, it was because I was wearing yet another pair of sexy, sweet, and super-stylin' slip-ons.
And the problem with slip-ons, when you're me, is that they also slip off. Just when you don't want them to. Like, on the stairs (yes, again with the stairs,) or in well-camouflaged sinkholes on an otherwise innocent-looking lawn. Or just walking along any old place, just for the fun of it.
Once I tripped on a sprinkler in flip-flops and ripped my toe (which BTW had already been broken literally several times) so hard that it dislocated from both sides of the little knuckle-like thingy in the middle. Cast for six weeks (apparently the magic number around here. Sheesh.)
That was the last time. But I still wear them. Albeit more carefully, these days.
In fact, I still have the very pair that led to my demise that last time. It wasn't the shoes' fault, anyway.
It was that stupid sprinkler! Who put that there, anyway?