New Shoes...

I’ve never had the shopping gene that most women seem to have.  I mean, I spent plenty of time at the mall as a teen, but that was more of a social outing – hanging with friends, eating mall pizza, etc. – than a shopping excursion.  I now avoid a mall like the plague.  I’m more of a thrift store shopper.  Not only because I’m a cheapskate, but also because the hunt is more interesting.

Current styles have never been my thing, either.  My fashion choices have always leaned to comfort first, with a bit of pizzazz second.  If I have a shopping weakness, however, it’s shoes.  I think that goes way back to childhood and I remember favorites from years ago.  From the platform tennis shoes my brothers dubbed “Cowabunga Shoes” to red Mary Janes, to denim cowboy boots, I’ve long held to the belief that new shoes make you run faster and jump higher.

Again, comfort is key for me, and I’ve never had an interest in Steve Martin-esque Cruel Shoes.  No stiletto, pointy-toed torture devices, but I appreciate design and quality and I like a little funk.  Sadly, becoming a grown up office-worker put the damper on my wardrobe choices and I settled for mundane professional attire.  Those favorite canary yellow Doc Martins and electric blue suede shoes had to be retired to make way for boring black loafers and such.

The thing is, no matter how many black shoes I’ve adopted over the years, I’ve never been able to settle on one that didn’t eventually hurt, deliver blisters, or otherwise disappoint.  The ones that felt good, comforted, and became favorites didn’t work with the proper/boring business clothes that now fill my closet.

The point of all this is that maybe I’ve realized that the shoes were never the problem.  Maybe my achy, unhappy feet have just been telling me that my life needed more cartoon-covered skirts and comfy overalls back in my wardrobe.

A couple of weeks ago, I walked away from my job.  With no notice, no plan for what to do next.  That’s not a move that is typical for me.  I’ve always hung in and tried to make things work.  Just like all those black shoes that seemed perfect for a while, it became clear that no amount of cushion insoles, bandaids, or thicker socks was ever going to make them fit right.

So, as I sit here in my comfy slippers, trying to figure out where to go and what to do next, one thing is clear:  I can’t keep trying to make my feet fit the shoes.  Somewhere out there is the perfect, comfortable (and maybe slightly quirky) place for my feet to land.  I believe those shoes are out there, the fit will be perfect, and I will run faster and jump higher.