I wear sensible shoes. I’ve worn sensible shoes for most of my life with the exception of those horrible patent leather shoes that were forced on me to wear to church. If it wasn’t for the fact that I could rub the heels together and make one of the most irritating sounds you’ve ever heard, they would have gone missing along with a bottle of bad tasting cough syrup and a note from my teacher about my inability to concentrate.
Part of the reason I wore sensible shoes is I inherited my dad’s wide feet and the fancy shoes were not made for wide feet; apparently they weren’t dainty enough. But I did try to squeeze my feet into more stylish shoes but they hurt and I don’t care how nice they looked, I prefer to not have my feet hurt to wearing shoes that are like small torture machines.
The other reason is I just didn’t want to wear the shoes with heels that a klutz like myself could and would easily fall off of and break some bones. They were also way too expensive. When I see shoes that cost hundreds of dollars I can’t imagine buying them. I spend a lot for a good pair of shoes but not hundreds of dollars. If I want to fall and break something it would be cheaper to just throw myself down the steps.
So the “Sex in the City’ gang can have their designer shoes and gigantic shoe closets — I’ll take my sensible shoes and one of those shoe bags that is hanging on my closet door. Now if we are talking about sensible socks vs. funky socks I am definitely on the side of funky.
I’m from the boomer generation. If our clothes got torn they were patched up (because you never threw ANYTHING away) and put into the “play clothes” pile. The play clothes were those things that were downgraded from good clothes to everyday clothes to play clothes. The next step was the rag basket. Don’t throw it away — use it up. This may explain my relationships with men but I digress.
In 1968 8th grade girls were taught how to darn a sock. REALLY we were. It was 1968 everywhere but in the Home Economics class at Southwest High School. It was 1930 there. We were given a darning egg — I hoped based on the name it would hatch and inside there would be a new pair of socks but that wasn’t the case. It was a wooden tool that resembled a maraca but with all the joy and fun of a maraca drained out of it. The only thing that could turn a darning egg into a maraca was a great imagination fueled by a pitcher or two of margaritas. I wonder if the boys in the woodworking class down the hall were being forced to make darning eggs but I doubted it. We were then suppose to insert the maraca into a sock with a hole in it and “darn” the sock with darning thread that probably cost as much as a new sock. I am happy to say that was the last time I ever darned a sock but I have shook many a margarita inspired maraca.
Believe me no one was more excited to find out torn was cool because torn and ripped is my “milieu” when it comes to fashion. [Yes, I had to look up the spelling of “milieu” and to see that it was actually a word and not something I thought was a word only to find out the real word is something else.]
Even though my mom was one of those moms who actually told you never to leave the house without clean underwear because you might get in an accident — her words are still with me but they just don’t ring as true to a 60+ year old as they did to a 10 year old. I have a hard time imagining that if I was in a car accident or fell into one of the potholes on the road or was trampled by a herd of crazed wild turkeys that I see in my neighborhood that when the EMTs arrive the first thing they would check for was not my pulse or vital signs but for clean underwear. And what if my underwear did not fit their standards — would I be left at the side of the road and, under cause of death, my death certificate would read “Unclean Underwear”?
Yes, torn is in but perhaps I have let it go a little too far? This is my current pair of torn jeans. (Give me points for not blurring my thigh ripples to make them disappear.) They have moved from good jeans, to okay jeans, to stay at home jeans. The next move will be landfill jeans because there is no rag basket in my home — that could only lead to cleaning.
Have you ever seen an outfit in a catalog or online and thought it was cute. Well I was looking for something to wear to my Fringe Show and wanted something bright and sassy and found this outfit. I thought it would work so I ordered it.
Well, maybe not. I took it out of the package and my first thought was “Oh my God that is one big ass star or is it a starfish.” Then I tried it on — 1) it was a little big and 2) Oh my God that is one big ass star or is it a starfish on my chest.
So, I will be returning it and wearing something from my closet which is fine. But I have experienced catalog disappointment often. There were these two dresses I bought from a company that delivers them from England. They were amazingly inexpensive when I ordered them and when they arrived they amazing cheap. And as I tried them on I wondered “what was I thinking?” These would be nice dresses for someone in the late teens and twenties but I looked like I was going to a costume party as an old lady who is still trying to graduate from high school. The cost to return them was just a bit less than the cost of the outfits so I donated them to an organization that will hopefully be able to find a more suitable person for this particular fashion statement.
I found this skirt and fell in love with it. I showed it to a friend who asked me if I thought it was “age appropriate.” I wanted to suggest she take the broomstick out of her behind because I think we should wear what makes us happy. With the possible exception of the Catholic school girl plaid jumper, I really question if there is such a thing as “age appropriate” clothing. Of course the plaid jumper could be fun in a good old fashioned game of the naughty school girl and the school crossing guard but I digress.
Growing up it seemed like everything I wore was either navy blue, forest green, or brown and if there was any design it was either a very small print or horizontal stripes because all of those wonderful choices were so slimming. Really until recently if you were larger and wanted to wear anything with a little pizazz you had to make it yourself. Lane Bryant rarely had anything that was age appropriate for a teenager.
So here’s a warning — I’ll wear whatever I want and if you don’t like it, well I’ll send a school crossing guard over to hit you on the head with a stop sign.
For some odd reason an ad for Temple dresses keeps popping up on my Facebook page and I couldn’t take it any longer — these are dresses that are suppose to be worn in the mormon temples (and yes I have not capitalized mormon on purpose the same way I do not capitalize yankees). I just have to say WTF? You know I heard about the magic underwear that mormons are suppose to have under their heathen clothes but what is this about? It says “Women’s Clothing” but it’s not — it’s “Little House on the Prairie Walnut Grove Annual Virgin Parade” clothing. All these women are missing is a sacrificial volcano and they are ready to go. Oh and isn’t it sweet that they are barefoot. That one on the left better get inside … I think she’s showing a little too much neck.
I’m not big on any organized religion but this is right up there with the 7 year old girls who dress like little brides when they take their first communion or women who have to keep themselves covered up so they don’t “tempt” men with their … upper arms and wrists I guess. Do you see what happens when you let men dictate what you wear — I mean straight men (or at least men who are pretending to be straight). Yikes.
I’m having a root canal today at 9. Yuck. I had one last year and it didn’t hurt (except for the Novocaine) but I still don’t want to have another. They cost a lot of money and they are boring. And worse of all, I have to lay there for almost an hour and I can’t talk. What are they trying to do to me? That’s like torture.
I remember last time how often I had a pithy or witty thing to say but all I could get out was a muffled “ah dah do eh lah” which I believe was “That’s what she said.” I’m thinking of starting a new career as a dental interpreter. I would sit in the room and listen to what the patient is saying and tell the dentist. Of course I would have to clean it up a little I suppose.
On a different topic, my friend (and fashionista) Peter, said that he hated the shirt I was wearing in yesterday’s picture — loved the blog and picture but hated the shirt. I like the shirt because, in the dead of winter, it’s bright and cheery and yet it’s still warm. Any other opinions?
Well off to the dentist I go. Eh ee uhg. (Interpreted = wish me luck).