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.
Last night the Social Media Marketing conference partied on the USS Midway. I didn’t know at first if I would go but decided to get out of my comfort zone and attend. When I saw all the steps we had to climb to get onto the ship I almost turned around and went back to the hotel but I said “I can do this” and I did it. Of course at the top some nice guy took my arm to help me — I must have looked or sounded pretty bad (at least it wasn’t a Boy Scout; when the Boy Scout helps me cross the street I’ll know I am over the hill). Of course I discovered later there was an elevator.
All I did was say “Good Morning.” I don’t want your first born (or any born) child. I don’t care if you know Jesus. I am not a zombie who wants to eat your brains. I’m not a vampire who wants to suck your blood. I’m not even that creepy person from English Lit who you think wanted to ask you to the prom but you’d rather dance naked in the street with your weird cousin from New Ulm than go to the prom with them.
I’m your neighbor — I live in the same building you do — and I just said “Good morning.” The proper response is “Good Morning,” or “Hi,” or “‘Sup.” The proper response is not to just keep walking and ignore me.
This happens all the time in my building with some of my younger neighbors. I’ll say “Good Morning” or “Hello” or something as threatening as “Hi,” and they look past me with this kind of fear on their face — it could be disdain — so with fear and/or disdain on their face. They look at me with disfainear. I like making up my own words.
Sometimes I have come back into the building after taking Miss Daisy out for her morning toilette and will see one of my neighbors leaving as I’m coming in. “Good morning” I’ll say and, of course there is no response. So, since they don’t talk I figure I have to pick up the conversation and I’ll just continue “Well good morning Mary how are you? Well I’m fine, thank you for asking; how are you? Just fine, have a nice day Mary. Thanks you too.”
I’m amused but the mute person in the lobby is just confused. Perhaps if I texted them “Good morning” I would get a response. Now I’m sounding like the old guy who yells “Get off my lawn you dang kids.” But I just want to let you know that if someone gives you a greeting it is nice to acknowledge it — unless it is a man in a station wagon offering your candy.
If you’re not sure how that is done here is a little video to help you:
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.