A Random Shoe Story

I think it’s safe to say Spring is here – as evidenced by the copious amounts of mucus currently congealing in the back of my throat.  It seems like Mother Nature is finally going to let me wear a pair of cute shoes as opposed to the galoshes and snow boots I’ve worn exclusively for the past four months.  Party on my feet!

So last week I set about rummaging through the bins of off-season clothes I have shoved under my bed and dug out a summery pair of slip on sneakers.  I bought them a little over a year ago – while my poor little head was just starting to grow stubble and housed a brain dumber than a cast member of the Jersey Shore.  While all the chemo drugs had worked their way out of my bod, I was still struggling a little with standing faints and fumbly fingers, so slip on sneaks were perfect!

I remember being thrilled to find such a cute pair of Merrells in my size at a discount store.  Despite being 5’10”, I wear a size 8.5 or 9 shoe.  I have short, fat feet.  If my body was the cast of Chelsea Lately, my feet would be played by Chuy.  I think that’s why I fall over so often.  Tall things should have a wide base.  The end.

Anyway, I bought the shoes.  Of course I did.  I LOVE Merrells.  I’m embarrassed to admit what percentage of my shoe collection is squishy, comfy, decidedly non-sex-kitten-esque Merrells.  Yet despite my new sneaks being perfect on paper, I didn’t wear them very much.  They weren’t very comfortable for some reason.  They pinched and never felt quite right.

Having not worn them in six months, I forgot they weren’t my favorites.  I shoved them onto my feet and shuffled out the door to meet Gwen at the very same discount shoe store.  Shifting from uncomfortable foot to uncomfortable foot, I strolled the aisles looking for shoes that might work with Gwen’s wedding dress.

Since I can only maintain the illusion of selflessness for about fifteen minutes, it wasn’t long before I was scanning the sizes on the stack of boxes beneath a display of Merrell sandals.  My brain, addled by allergies and blinking fluorescent lights couldn’t pluck the right shoe size from it’s memory bank.  What size do I usually wear in Merrells?  Why would I forget such a thing.  Oh hey, dumbass…take off the shoe you’re wearing and look.  Why didn’t I think of that?  Oh wait, technically I did.

So I bent my knee behind me, reached around, pulled off the shoe, and stuck my poor unsuspecting nose far too close to the now moist inner lining as I peered at the size – “7.5.”  Seven and a half? I lowered the shoe from my face and took a deep breath as my brain slowly churned.  Wait, maybe that’s the UK size. I held my breath and stuck my face back into the shoe.  “UK – 5.”  Well that explains a LOT. Then the lights started to dim as the toxic foot fumes replaced all the oxygen in my lungs.

Let this be a lesson to you – do not shop under the influence of chemo.  In other news, I now have an excuse to buy a new pair of shoes.  I think I’ll wait until the brain has recovered from allergy season, however.

Speaking of shoving things where they shouldn’t go – for this week’s Craftastrophe post, I found an artist dedicated to creating ceramic uteri filled with…well…quite a variety of things.  It’s time to start thinking about Mother’s Day gifts, after all.

I was about to close this out with “stick a fork in me – I’m done,” but that just seems extra inappropriate after perusing all those clay wombs.  I’m going to stop talking now.  Probably.

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• Why Weekends Make Me Tired
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