Fall is my favorite season for many reasons. The greens of summer give way to orange, red and yellow hues of autumn. I revel in the remnants of school years past when a fresh start yielded new notebooks and pens. Now, each September, I jump out of bed with the promise of a new day, a new life and a new attitude that come with cool morning temperatures. It’s tabula rasa all over again. What joy to have another second chance!
True confessions, I’m not a shopper, yet I’ve always loved to buy new shoes to herald this season. Over the past few years, though, I’ve noticed that it brings me less happiness than it used to. Part of the reason is that the heels are way too high, but the bigger issue, which may portend a mental health problem, is that I can’t seem to stop buying black. There are probably 9,000 different shades on the color palette, but I resort to black. Yes, black is practical. It goes with everything, it tends to mask dirt and you can wear it anytime of the day or night. Thank you, every old person who has ever guided me on my shopping trips.
But, my God! When did I become so boring and unimaginative, that I continually limit myself to colorless shoes? Why not just adorn my piggies with grocery bags that accompany my food purchases? They’re free, and they don’t require a special trip to yet another store. Perfect solution for one who despises shopping, wouldn’t you agree?
Well, anyway, today I had to see myself for what I have become, when I took myself to my favorite store stocked floor to ceiling with finery for one’s feet. I was overcome by the choices and oh, the colors! It was difficult to know where to look first, next, and after that. There were fire engine red boots. Blue suede pumps. Toffee loafers. Mocha moccasins. For a moment, my arm and I got into a tug-of-war as it reached for a pair of black shoes. Gallantly, I fought back, silently screaming: “No!! Another pair of black shoes will qualify me for the convent!” I’m pleased to say that I won the battle, at least in my mind, when I chose a pair of navy blue moccasins (to me, a step up from black) and marched them up to the checkout. This was truly a milestone event, since I seem to pay less attention to what’s on my feet than to the type of medication I take. After the clerk called “next shoe lover”, I strutted over and plunked down my cash, having achieved no-black-shoes-for-me-today status. As the young lady at the counter checked my purchase, I noticed a terrible word on the side of the box: BLACK, flashing neon-like for all the world to see that, yep, I’d done it again. I almost choked: “Wait! Black? Don’t they look like navy blue to you?”
With pity in her eyes, she said: “Well, they’re not carbon black. They’re not really dark, so they could look like navy, I guess.” Huh? Well, she tried, but reality is a bitter pill to swallow. Much like that damn Fosomax that keeps my bones from crumbling.
I bought the shoes, against my will, because I couldn’t bear to face all those choices yet again, only to be beaten down by my now unconscious tendency to don my dogs in black. Next time we meet, just look down. You’ll recognize me by my boring feet.
What now? A housedress? I need help.