About a year ago, at the tender age of 48, I decided to quit dressing like a teenager…well ok, like a Mom who was running a household of many, many people and had to get dressed in a hurry and wound up dressing like how she thought teenagers should dress…or something…that is, blue jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers. Anyway. I wore blue jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers all the time except to church and even then dressing was for comfort instead of style. The nicest dress I had was purchased in 1993. I know this because I remember how exciting it was, me with 3 children under 6, getting a new dress. And I like the dress. obviously, since it was (and still is) 21 years old. It’s a pretty dress. I am not going to waste a pretty dress just because it went out of style 19 years ago, and came back in, and went back out. Another few years it will be Vintage and I will be looked at with awe by….well. No one, really. I still have a genuine Izod sweater, the kind with the tiny alligator patch on the front, and it’s the Real Thing, like people snatch up at thrift shops, only it was purchased it new, 27 years ago.
anyway. A year ago, the jeans and t-shirts and sneakers were put away, to be replaced by lovely swishy skirts and feminine blouses in that most dangerous of colors: white. The sneakers were retired, and replaced with pretty flat sandals and ballet style shoes. That’s right. I had decided to Dress The Part. Himself had moved up in his career to a point where it was important that his wife not look like someone who dressed like what she thought teenagers should dress like, and instead look like someone who Cared, but with Flair. (or something) Actually my style came from magazines, thank goodness for those ones that put outfits together, then told the reader where to buy them. I sighed when Coldwater Creek (that catalog for Moms and Old Ladies who still want to look like they Care) went out of business. They were good at putting things together, so I didn’t have to. All this was fun. The closet is now full of pretty skirts (preferable to dresses, as my bottom half is a different size from the top half) and blouses, and a bunch of cute shoes all in a pile (c’mon! One thing at a time! you expect me to be all organized as well as nicely dressed?!).
But…(you saw this coming, didn’t you. If you didn’t then you don’t know me very well)… there were problems. Oh the clothes are great. The shoes are pretty. The outfits get compliments along the lines of “Rootietoot, you look really nice today!” Which is nicer than being asked to do some grubby task since I’m the only one in jeans and at-shirt. However, there have been complications.
It turns out, when one has worn nothing but super-deluxe arch supporty ergonomic athletic shoes all ones life, then suddenly switches to flatty flat sandals that the designer thinks arch supports are for losers, ones feet protest. Loudly and with painful vigor, enough so that medical intervention has become necessary. I knew it was happening, but this new-found vanity was so much fun that the feet-whine was ignored. Pretty Feet Were Important, dadgummit!
I was waiting until After The Wedding. That was the benchmark point (is that the right analogy) for every single thing the first half of the year. No, I can’t sew for you/work at Vacation Bible School/reupholster the chair/see a doctor for pain until After The Wedding. but now that is done. #3 and his New Wife are safely settled and it’s time to quit hurting. (plus, I didn’t want to risk being told I had to wear orthopedic granny shoes with the beautiful Mother of the Groom dress, as these strappy silver things were chosen) (painful, but pretty.)
A podiatrist has been consulted. He tsked and clucked and said things like “if you had come in sooner this would be easier to fix.” and “most people who wait this long end up needing surgery”. I made a noise on Facebook that sounded a little like “orthopedic shoes!” and everyone perked up with all kinds of advice and I felt a little like the young woman who gets pregnant with her first and every single person on the planet who has ever had a baby suddenly throws books and web sites and advice about boobs and stretch marks and how to get the kid into a good college. “SHOES!” and “Complicated device!” and “Coconut oil!” (that stuff cures everything these days). It’s a little overwhelming. So, The decision was made to politely thank everyone and go with what the guy with all the education about feet has to say.
That is… “You need to wear lace up shoes, preferably athletics.”
Which means, I can either wear them, those fabulously comfortable and supportive New Balances that were a wardrobe staple since high school, with the swishy skirts and lovely blouses, and look like a 3rd Sister-wife (we have those around here….all denim skirts and long hair and sneakers), or I can return to the blue jeans and t-shirts of yore. They’re all still there, in the dresser.
In the mean time, between appointments with Dr. G, Podiatrist With Many Letters after His Name, there is a clumsy but effective and strikingly comfortable boot that has to be worn whenever I am not doing something productive. Which is often, because standing up and walking hurts. This means much tv is being caught up on, many plans are being made for After The Boot Comes Off.
I guess God means me to dress casually, or wear sneaks with skirts. Himself suggested snazzy Converse All- Stars, and a friend said they could be Bedazzled.