A mother. A daughter. A topic.
Topic: What gives with women’s shoes?
{ Topic submitted by Brian K. (Uncle Buddy) }
Cindy Thinks
Ally Thinks
I’m almost embarrassed to admit it…but when I watch the commercials for DSW my heart begins to race and I find it a bit difficult to breath. I don’t know if it’s that jazzy/Latin style music they play, or the flashing of various styles of shoes appearing on my TV screen. But I truly begin to hyperventilate.
It’s not something I’m proud of.
Maybe I’m sick.
Maybe I’ve developed low blood pressure due to shoe intoxication.
I don’t know…and I don’t care. I just want to rush out to DSW (or any other store selling shoes) and see what magical shoe wants to jump off the shelf into my arms for that day.
But that is now…and it’s important to know that I wasn’t always so excited about shoes. When I was much younger, I cared about boys, not shoes (I had no idea at the time how incredibly linked the two were), and…I didn’t do outfits. I did jeans and T-shirts and usually grabbed whatever shoes were closest to the front of my closet so that I didn’t have to exert much energy to find them when running out the door.
Then I got a job.
And, I began to interact with people who seemed to get up in the morning and put their clothes on in a “meaningful way”…including their shoes.
I was fascinated.
I remember shopping for my first grown-up work clothes in catalogs such as Newport News and Spiegel and they would show brightly colored two piece suits with matching colored high heel “pumps.”* A turquoise suit with turquoise pumps…a peach suit with peach pumps. It was a virtual sherbet sundae of working woman clothing…and I couldn’t wait to eat it up.
(For those who are unfamiliar with the classic “pump” style…it is a simple design that has endured over decades, promising to elongate the leg, slim down even the thickest of ankles, and guarantee any number of foot ailments due to years of squeezing five toes into a narrow pointed section of leather at the bottom of a 45 degree angle.)
I quickly learned that shoes came in other styles besides turquoise or peach colored pumps and couldn’t seem to get enough shoes into my life (or into my closet). I started buying shoes in every combination of shapes, heel heights and colors. Some worked. Some didn’t. But through it all, I began to develop a knack for figuring out which style of shoe would best compliment each piece of clothing in my close and how to build an “outfit” using shoes as the anchor piece.
I was in heaven! I was struttin’ down the street in classic loafers with rolled up jeans, or wowing business associates with subtle yet classy pumps (no more turquoise for this lady!) or tempting my man to take me out (and back home for a “lovely” night) with a pair of drop dead stilettos that made my legs look like they came out of my shoulders.
Each pair of shoes had a specific purpose that was expressly stated when combined with the appropriate outfit. As I walked into a room, you would instantly know what I was saying…like, “take me seriously at work” -or “I may be a mom, but I’m still a sexy momma!” – or – “let’s walk on dirt”…you get the idea.
It was a great system and I loved the challenge of figuring out what shoe would best express the purpose at hand.
And then…I developed bunions.
On both feet.
And had to stop wearing 99% of the shoes in my closet.
I experienced my first ever serious shoe slump. Following surgery on both feet at the same time, I was relegated to a pair of large, clunky, foam filled, Velcro closing, open toed “bunion boots”…for 6 WEEKS!
As I sunk into a deep shoe withdrawal depression, my doctor explained that at the end of the 6 weeks, I should have at the ready, a pair of …(it’s hard for me to say these words) … “sensible shoes.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. It took me the full 6 weeks to figure it out. Finally, I found a pair of shoes I could walk comfortably in for the next year.
And, they were kind of cute.
No…not really.
They were wide, and brown, and flat and boring. But they didn’t hurt.
It took 12 months, 3 weeks and 4 days before I was able to get my feet into a new cute shoe.
You would think that during this time (including the years of pain leading up to the bunions and resulting surgery) I would have been cured of my serious shoe addiction. But no.
Instead, it taught me an important lesson…that with both patience and perseverance, I could search out new styles, heel heights and colors that could still be DROP DEAD perfect, but…with a bit of moderation (that would mean no more 4″ heels), they didn’t actually have to cause any more bodily harm.
I WAS FREE AGAIN! Free to once again start buying cute (and sometimes still comfortable) shoes. Free to re-embrace the challenge of building great outfits while allowing my shoes to state the purpose of my day as I walked into a room.
And free to let the joy and excitement creep back into my life as a new DSW commercial aired on TV.
I have a love/hate relationship with shoes.
I love cute shoes. Pretty shoes. Ridiculous shoes in ridiculous colors with ridiculous pointy toes that cost a ridiculous amount of money.
I love to put them on and look at them on my feet, see how they peek out underneath extra long skinny jeans, make my extra large feet look tiny.
I love to paint my toenails a pretty pink and see how cute they look against my favorite pair of black strappy sandals.
I love shoes with heels that are 3-inches, I love wedges, and I love adorable flats in fun colors and patterns.
The love stops, though, when I actually have to stand up in those ridiculous shoes and, you know, walk somewhere. Suddenly, those adorable shoes with the pointy toes go from things of beauty to horrible torture devices.
When I was a kid I always thought I’d grow up and be able to walk in heels. I’d hit a certain age and it would be easy. It’s in my genes, for god’s sake! But alas, here I am, 25, an “adult”, and I still look like some disabled duck waddling around when I put heels on. I don’t look like some confident, sexy woman who could strut around New York City with Sarah Jessica Parker.
I blame this on the fact that I outgrew my mom’s shoe size at a very early age. When I could fit into her size 7 high heels, I had no interest in shoes. By the time I wanted to practice walking in pretty shoes like my mom wore, I couldn’t cram my size 9 feet into them. I can only assume that I missed some vital point in my adolescence that has left me lacking in this department of my “womanhood”.
(Though, now that I think about it, it’s not a skill exclusive to women. Have you seen “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” recently? Tim Curry dancing in those stilettos puts me – hell, most women – to serious shame.)
I try to be pickier about what shoes I purchase. (Not having a steady income really helps with that.) I try really hard not to get shoes that are even slightly uncomfortable when I try them on in the store.
(Sadly, I totally still fail.)
Part of me wants to say “fuck it” to all of the annoying and uncomfortable shoes in my closet. “Screw you” to the ones that gave me blisters that required me to shell out 4 bucks for 3 Band-Aids at the hotel gift shop while on a trip earlier this year. “See ya” to the ones that caused me to sit on the side of the bathtub, weeping after an evening out, pouring warm water over my sore feet.
But, alas, I can’t let go. They sit there, strewn across the floor of my closet, hanging on the back of my bedroom door in one of those organizer things from Target, or underneath my bed. They stare at me, and I just can’t get rid of them. Yes, they hurt, but that incredibly irrational voice in my head says “But they’re SO PRETTY!!”.
(Yes, that voice sounds a lot like my mother.)
So I save those shoes until I forget how bad they’ve hurt me. I save them because at some point I’ll put on some clothes and realize that those devil shoes are required to make the “perfect outfit”.
When all is said and done, it’s tough for me to decide what my philosophy is when it comes to shoes. Either life is too short to wear shoes that cause you pain, or life is too short to wear ugly shoes.
That voice in my head (Hi mom!) tends to scream the latter at me.
If my life was a movie, I would like to think that it would be a musical. A light, airy, funny, neat but quirky little story laced with wonderful singing and dancing. The kind that plasters a big smile on your face when you get up to leave the theater and has you humming at least one of the tunes all the way to your car.
Not that I actually ever sing (or hum). Because I was told at the age of 10 that I couldn’t sing by my 5th grade choir teacher, and I never really tried again.
But I do dance. And I think that should qualify me for musical status.
But musicals are oh so much more than just singing and dancing. They present a view of the world that gives us hope and joy and there’s always some sort of lesson to be learned through the story….like…
Lesson #1: A boy and girl can find each other and be happy happy happy.
Lesson #2: You can get the bad guys and they will get what they deserve.
Lesson #3: The world is a better place when we hold hands and,
Lesson #4: If we pull together, we CAN put on a show!
I love the idea of defining my life with that kind of optimistic outlook on the world, where seemingly insurmountable problems get resolved and all of the characters end up better off than they were before.
I mean, WHY NOT?
Why not sing and dance through life? Why not have happy endings (and beginnings and middles)? Why not belt out a show stopping tune that tells everyone to Stop Raining on Your Parade?
I know musicals tend not to be taken seriously, but in terms of how to live a life…it sure is a lot better than being a suspense thriller, or an intense drama. I mean how scary and exhausting would that be!?!
The thing that trips me up on this one though is that we all tend to think of musicals as being rooted in fantasy (Brigadoon anyone!?). And I don’t actually consider my life to be fantasy based at all. Rather, I believe I’m a realist. I just like a little light-heartedness with my reality. And a lot of music, and dance, and humor and passion and goodness. All ingredients for a well rounded musical.
This isn’t a new thing for me. I was raised watching musicals. And I raised my children to watch and appreciate them as well. We used to go to see every Broadway musical we could, some on Broadway…some at our local dinner theater. But we saw them all.
So imagine my delight when a real life (in a matter of speaking) musical came to TV.
I’m talking about GLEE.
Unlike the old fashioned musicals, where everyone breaks into song mid-sentence for no apparent reason…there really is a reason for these kids to be singing and dancing.
They’re in the Glee Club.
And they make it cool.
And OMG the talent! Invariably one of the characters will sing some amazing song at some point in the show that ALWAYS makes me smile (or cry). And when the show is over, it makes me feel like the world is a better place.
Sometimes I think how cool it would be to ACTUALLY have my life BECOME a musical. I think it would be amazing to be able to break out in song when something disappoints me, or when something great happens, and have it be acceptable behavior.
But then I remember…I really can’t sing.
Oh well. I can still dream and I still have Glee.
I think that some people want their lives to be like a really serious movie. Like the kind where there’s no soundtrack and it’s super tense and uncomfortable and it’s only available in limited release in New York City.
Am I one of these people? Not so much.
Like most people’s lives, mine is mostly mundane. Also like most people, if my life were a movie, it would be lots of different genres.
All of us have a little bit of everything in our lives. For the most part, we live a life that nobody would want to watch a movie about. It’s boring and repetitive and there’s nothing really compelling about it, at least to anyone else.
But we all have those moments that are insanely comedic, or incredibly dramatic, or straight out of a love story (or a love tragedy).
Some of us have horrible things happen. Things that should stay firmly in the realm of disturbing entertainment.
But the theme throughout my life – thankfully – has been comedy. I can look back on almost everything, and see the funny in it.
I’ve been really lucky because my life has been incredibly easy going with little reason to complain. But even those few dramatic and crappy moments have taught me that seeing the comedy in every situation is the key to survival.
To be honest, and accurate, my life is probably best classified as a “dark comedy”: full of humor that makes others slightly uncomfortable and things that very few people find funny except for me.
But that’s my favorite kind of funny.
The only thing I truly wish for is that my life life in general was like a musical. Or at least like an episode of “Glee”. Then, when the bad shit happens, at least I could go into a well-choreographed routine while singing some amazing song from my favorite band or musical.
(Who wants to sing a song from Wicked with me?)
I mean, how many times have you wished you could belt out “Don’t Rain on My Parade” and have everyone look at you and think, “Man, that girl can sing… and I’m totally not going to mess with her anymore.”’
(Just me?)
(Liars.)
But other than the lack of singing and dancing, I’m pretty happy to accept that my life is totally and completely hilarious.
(PS: WAIT. I lied. If I could, I would live on Pandora.)
(PPS: As long as there’s singing.)
It’s been a week since the kidney transplant and I am absolutely thrilled to let everyone know that the transplant went, and continues to go, amazingly well for both Brian and me.
He looks terrific and I’m getting there (although he’d probably reverse that statement!).
We’re both back at our respective homes (me – the next day – if you can believe that…and him after only 3 days), and we’re both getting up and around and eating and sleeping well…and healing day by day.
The time we spent in the hospital is all kind of a blur for me. From the moment we got to the hospital (with side by side pre-op rooms where we all ran back and forth visiting one another) to waking up later that day to be told that Brian was already in the ICU, looking and sounding great, with a fully functioning kidney (going gangbusters from what they told me). I must admit, I really didn’t comprehend where I was or what had actually happened earlier that day (a testament to the quality of drugs that they were giving me) until hours into the night, although others told me that I was sitting up carrying on conversations with visitors not long after they brought me to my room.
The next day I had only one thing on my mind from the moment I woke up. I wanted (no – NEEDED) to see Brian. It was kind of a mission for me. I HAD to see him with my own eyes.
And everyone involved worked to make that happen.
The nurses got me all unhooked from my various IV’s and tubes. Matthew made sure I was comfortable and looked presentable. Disa (Brian’s Sister) placed a bejeweled tiara on my head (because she knows I love jewelry) and several of our friends and family (thank you all more than we could ever express!) surrounded me in their “Team Carrillo” T Shirts, as we strolled (me in a wheelchair) through the halls to see Brian.
Then I saw him…sitting in his bed…looking INCREDIBLE.
His eyes were white (I never realized how dull and grey they had gotten) and his coloring was dark and rich again.
When I rolled next to his bed his smile could have lit up the entire room. We held hands. We checked out each other’s conditions. We couldn’t believe our eyes. I was fine. He was fine.
WE DID IT!
It felt like everything around us stopped. Everything we had talked about for so long…everything we had been working toward for the last few months…the idea of Brian finally getting a kidney so that he could feel good again…was here…and now.
It was…UNIMAGINABLE.
Words can simply not express the emotion that came flooding into both of us. And, I think, those around us.
But the thing that amazes me today as I sit here and write this post…is that we really live in a time and place where they could put me under, cut me open, take out my kidney, cut him open, put it in his body, hook it up…and it make it work!
I mean – OMG! Can you believe that they can do that!?!
Don’t get me wrong…everyone explained to me what would happen beforehand. I signed on the dotted line. I logically and rationally understood that this is what we were working toward, but I’m not sure I really fully comprehended that it meant a living part of me was going to be living inside of him, doing what it should be doing.
I mean – OMG!
How do you get a handle on that!?!
It is f—king amazing!
So, I think it’s important to stop and take a moment to thank all of the doctors and nurses and researchers and technicians who have EVER worked on any part of making kidney transplants possible. You all have done a hell of a job!
You’re all f—king amazing!
And to everyone out there who sent their warm wishes and positive thoughts/prayers our way during this entire process…we both thank you from the bottom of our hearts. It has meant more than you’ll ever know.
Now…my job is done, and Brian’s work is just beginning. He has a long road ahead of him of getting back into shape while managing all of the medicines that will keep him thriving. But ya know…I have no doubt that he’s going to do it with as much gusto as he can muster.
After all, amazing as it seems, he’s got my kidney to help him do it!
We did it.
I know that I didn’t actually have to get a kidney removed or get one put in, but I still feel like it was all of us who got through the surgery.
And let’s face it: my parents got to sleep through the whole thing.
The surgery was quicker than I thought it would be, and the waiting wasn’t too terrible. A group of us sat in the hospital doing various art projects (because that’s apparently what we do in these situations… or when a four-year-old is waiting with you) and having fun. We all (almost) had on our Team Carrillo shirts so we sort of looked like some sort of bowling team while walking around, but it was nice to feel (and look) like a group.
Another thing that helped was being able to share what was happening online.
Which leads me to the most important part of this post:
To all of you who followed along on Twitter and Facebook, and sent words of love and encouragement: THANK YOU. YOU are probably the biggest reason that I didn’t spend hours throwing up in the bathroom all day. YOU made me feel like the ground was still under my feet as we waited to hear that my parents were OK and that the kidney was good.
I had strangers reaching out to me on Twitter and telling me that they were rooting for us. I had a girl I’ve never met outside of the computer who messaged me on Facebook and said she was following #divorcedkidneys in New Jersey.
Of course I appreciate the friends who checked in, and the family who sent kind words, but knowing that someone across the country who you’ve never met is thinking about you, and thinking about your parents, is a pretty crazy feeling.
It was amazing.
Since my dad doesn’t have a blog (loser), I figure I’ll tell you all how he’s doing.
In a word: incredible.
It’s amazing what a new organ will do for someone. Like I said in my last post, I’ve never thought of my dad as a “sick person”, so it’s kind of shocking to see the difference that a working kidney has already made. I don’t think any of us expected it would be such a drastic change, let alone so quickly.
Of course he needs to rest and recover from the surgery, but overall he’s doing extremely well.
My mom is in more pain because I think her body kind of misses her kidney. I feel bad for her so I’ve been trying to make her feel better by making her laugh because LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE…
(In fact, I think this is the reason my dad is doing so well.)
But I guess laughter isn’t the best medicine when you’ve just had your stomach cut open to remove a vital organ.
So Mom didn’t really appreciate it when I told her that she should stop being lazy and help me off of the couch when I need to go to the bathroom. Or when she was painfully trying to sit up on some pillows and I yelled “PILLOW FIGHT” and then went to hit her with one.
(Don’t worry: I wasn’t actually going to throw it at her.)
It’s like she totally doesn’t realize that I’m trying to help.
(PS: A few days following his surgery I asked my dad if he had named his new kidney (because I have this thing about naming inanimate objects). Without missing a beat he said, “Rebecca the Little Pisser”, because he’s awesome. So three cheers for Rebecca, yes?)
(PPS: I called my dad and asked if he’d like to say anything to the people reading our blog. He said, “Thank you to everyone who called or sent messages or supported us,” which is really sappy for my dad. I think my mom’s girl kidney is totally having an effect. I’m just hoping he wants to take me shoe shopping soon.)
(PPPS: Next week we’re going to write about something that has nothing to do with vital organs. Promise.)