Staying on the Fun Side – From Mail Order Catalogs
I ordered these new stilettos by mail because the model looked great wearing them and I was convinced they were just what I needed to complete myself. Well, that and a sheer shawl with beaded butterflies. The stilettos, like the model, were everything that I was not. They even sounded cool: stilettos. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I figured with a name like that they must come with a dark exotic man holding a plate of daisies.
I should probably tell you that I’m not a delicate woman. I bought a bikini this summer and I could never get my whole stomach into it, it was spilling out everywhere like tinned cookies. It looked like she was wearing an inner tube and the bottom half of the bikini disappeared completely from view. Now that I think about it, wearing stilettos made about as much sense as putting an alarm system on a Dodge Dart. Yeah, now that I think about it, they weren’t me. But that has never stopped me before and it doesn’t stop me now. Also, it was only 25.99. And there’s a rare day I can turn down something that’s only 25.99 whether I need it or not.
When they arrived, they turned out to be a bit taller than I’d imagined, sort of like Great-Aunt Ethel getting a little off balance when she’s downed seven gin and tonics in the course of an hour. Four inches tall. So high, that when I put them on, I was thrown forward with each step and I could feel the formation of little fractures (not sure what they’re called, but it sounded good when House said it) along with the whispered cries of my ankles begging piety.
Oh, but my calves looked good. And I pictured that model in the catalog and remembered that dream where I saw myself sitting in my future wearing cardigans and orthopedic sneakers and yelling at my afternoon soaps. And I went into another one of those moments where I break with reality, like when I lost three pounds and I thought I could take off that tank top, and I said what I usually say when my purchases don’t make sense. I can get these to work.
So every morning I practiced walking with them. And being the hands-on work-from-home mom that I am, I made smart use of my time by breaking in my new shoes while answering my emails (ah, the joys of working from home) and letting myself get sprayed. bronzer to set. This was in the midst of another reality lapse where I was convinced it wasn’t really bright orange, but rather was one app away from looking like the model on the bottle. And everyone knows you have to let things dry before you get dressed, so I put on this really tiny nightgown that was what my husband called my rape prevention outfit: light blue and covered in tacky orange sunflowers that I had It was a gift from my great-grandmother who had one just like it. My two year old was taking a nap.
Blame the delivery man, but that’s how it started when he rang the doorbell to deliver my new CD case: Six Steps to Uncover the New You, which he apparently thought was a good buy after seeing my nightgown, orange peel, heels needle. , and a head full of pink sponge curlers. In fact, I think he was a little scared because he tossed the package on the steps and left without even asking me for a signature, forcing me to walk outside to get it, lurching forward in my new stilettos with every step, like a chicken, as he revved the engine and headed down the street.
That’s how I got locked out of the house and found myself standing on my front porch in that slow-motion moment of sanity, thinking to myself this can’t be a good thing before I panicked. The kind of panic that comes from knowing you’ve just locked yourself outside while your child naps inside, intensified by the knowledge that you’re standing before God and all your neighbors in stiletto heels and a nightgown that barely covers crucial parts. . and leaves the rest out in the open, especially the neighbor’s dog who was already drooling at the sight of my chubby thigh. Apparently, he didn’t care how orange it was.
I ran like a deranged colt to the neighbor’s house. Unanswered. To the other neighbor’s house. Unanswered. Until I tried almost every house on the street except the lady who borrowed my heating pad and never gave it back. That wound had not yet healed. My only recourse was the corner gas station. And there I was, clucking down Sherwood Street looking like a defective dollar store mannequin in the morning traffic, receiving lots of stars, a gaping jaw from a freckled kid on a bike, and the occasional honk. of a well-intentioned trucker who took pity on me, all the while trying his best to appear normal.
I pretended it was nothing out of the ordinary as I half-run, half-limped past Little Mouse Daycare and greeted the forty-seven faces glued to the fence with expressions that said this was so much better than when Jimmy vomited in the fishbowl. I drove past Diamond City, where the line of Vietnamese nail technicians were waving happily and asking if I needed to get my eyebrows plucked. At least that’s what I think they were asking, that, or was it a ritual chant to ward off evil spirits, orange and tan stiletto heels. I passed the little Baptist church on the corner where a group of ladies chatting outside huddled together and started praying for me right there.
I’ve been through all these places, never considering that one of them might have a phone I could use, including the corner bakery where I smiled and for the first time in my life moved on. Well well. So I stopped in and bought two bear claws and a cream puff. sue me! I was stressed and needed the extra energy for the last five meters to the gas station. Only I never made it to the gas station thanks to the Barney Fife wannabe who pulled me over to the side of Sherwood, just an arm’s length from the pay phone.
Long story short, I got arrested for something to do with indecent exposure. They wanted to get me for prostitution, but decided that even homeless people knew better than to put those colors together. And they’re trying to get me into the police car and I’m screaming hysterically, My baby, my baby, and they think I’m speaking in code, perhaps pointing to my most dangerous street boss: a no-brainer for two local cops I’ve seen. One too many Law & Order episodes, and they’re reaching for their Tasers, or maybe it was just a breath mint, but I tend to get upset over things. And just as I’m yelling, don’t touch me bro, don’t touch me, I see my husband driving down the street.
I swear I saw him hesitate before stopping. He denies it, but I saw the look, the look that said he was trying to decide which was worse: my anger or admitting to the police that we were married. And good man that he is, he talked me into a ticket and tossed me into the front seat of his car with a look that dared me to say a word. He didn’t want my side of the story. He never let me tell it.
Now I use my stilettos to hammer things, which irritates my husband, who says it’s an awfully expensive hammer and brings back sharp memories every time I pull it out. Apparently, a couple of her golfing friends saw the photo on the front page of the newspaper with the headline: Local Woman Gives Homeless a Bad Name.
But I am interested in finding the good in things. And I think there is something to be found in that story. He has a message. Why don’t we all find ourselves at some point in our lives trying to fit our foot into a shoe that doesn’t fit us right? Trying to be something we’re not? So learn from me when I say that life is meant to be lived just the way we are. Embrace what makes you unique. Or you may find yourself clicking on the street like a chicken.
