She Thinks

For anybody who knows me or who has read this blog in the past (and knows how crazy I am about shoes)…this one will strike you as odd.  But it is the truth.

I HATE all the shoes with the ridiculous stiletto platforms that try to lure us into thinking that we can actually stand in a shoe sitting more than 6” off the ground…and then walk.

You know the ones I’m talking about…they look pretty at first glance, but they’ve been known to give women nose bleeds when they wear them!

The theory of course is that the platform helps to raise the front part of our foot off the ground enough to reduce the angle down from the 6” heel behind the platform.

But who are they kidding?

The whole combination just makes us walk on stilts without anything touching the damn floor!

And when I see women try to walk in them…I think they look like they’re either constipated (ya have to squeeze your tush really tight in order to stay upright in ‘em) or have had their feet bound since birth (shuffling along in 2” increments).

(Pause) (Breathe)

Ok.  Now that I’ve said it, I feel all the 54 years that I am.  And right now, that feels old.

Why?  Because when I was wearing a cute little shoe with a 3–*-” heel (not too long ago), I remember my mother saying to me …”how do you walk in those things?”  And she sounded old when she said it.

So I’ve become my mother.

But I’m standing by my hatred.

‘Cause I think they’re just too much shoe.

Honestly, how can you look at them and not think they’re bulky.

I mean come ‘on!?!  A platform bootie?

It looks like little foot tanks, or the boots they put on people who have had major foot surgery.

Or platform shoes that combine their bulkiness with animal prints?  Like we want lots of spotted patterns on our feet?

*Exception: some animal print shoes can be lovely with a simple outfit, adding just a bit of interest while making the whole look classy…and styling, as long as the shoes are an accent and don’t look like we just wrapped our foot in a live leopard.

Finally…and the end of my rant (I promise)…What is up with the large, bulky platform shoes that are COVERED with sequins, jewels or crystals?

It’s not enough that we’re towering off the ground, but have to be shooting off rays of light as we walk?

Maybe I am old.

Or I’ve just gotten to the point where I like to blend the pieces of my wardrobe together into one cohesive look, rather than having all the attention go to two gigantic coverings on my feet.

Who knows.  I’m so worked up now…I think I’ll put on my favorite pair of simple, classy, fuzzy slippers and curl up with all my new fashion magazines.

Maybe they’re showing the new line of 6” platform running shoes.

My Maiden name was Kram.

It was nice and short and went well with Cindy.

Cindy Kram.

Easy to remember, and easy to spell.

And the fun part of the name was that it was ”Mark” spelled backwards.

My dad named his manufacturing company “Mark Industries” (a nice little family inside joke).   And, I’m pretty sure I have a cousin out there named Mark Kram (funny family huh?).

People used to tell me that my last name was almost certainly shortened from “Kramer” (a well known German name) when my grandfather immigrated to this country, but my dad denied it…adamantly…as did his dad.

But I didn’t care.  I just thought it was cool that it was Mark spelled backwards.

Growing up, I never felt a strong attachment to the name.  But I identified with it.  I was Cindy Kram.

I guess, as a girl, I got the message early on that it was a temporary moniker that I’d someday shed for another, so don’t get too close.   Boys are raised with the expectation that they will keep their last names and “carry on” the name throughout the generations, but none of that pressure (or expectation) is bestowed upon girls.

But I was raised in a pretty progressive family where most of the gender expectations were being challenged on a regular basis.  So when it came to actually changing my name when I got married…I really had to think about whether or not I wanted a new name.

I felt like I could choose to take on a new name…or not, (which actually ended up causing me lots of angst).

Should I hold onto my given name and buck tradition?  Did Cindy Kram carry an attachment to my heritage and history that I should hold on to?  Did giving up my last name for a man mean that I wasn’t an independent woman?  Did I want to have a different last name than my husband?  Or… my (future) kids?

Finally…it came down to the most important question of all…did I like the name?

Carrillo.  Cindy Carrillo.

It kind of flowed.

I liked the two “C’s.”

But I couldn’t roll my “rrrrrr’s” when saying the name (unless I used the phlegm in my throat) and felt a bit intimidated by a name that I knew carried a whole new ethnicity with it.

Most folks think its Italian, but it’s actually Hispanic.  Or rather Spanish…as my mother-in-law used to tell me.

But even so, she said I didn’t have to role the “rrrrrrr’s.”  She said they pronounced it with a hard “r” and “l” sound (Car-ril-lo)…not (Carrrrr-eee-yo).

So I tried it on.  Played with it.  Wrote it down.  Practiced a new signature.  Pretended that I was being introduced at a party, “I’d like you to meet Cindy Carrillo.”

And I started to like the way it felt.

Only then did I start to embrace the idea of taking on a new name with true enthusiasm (and let go of all the other stuff).

But not my mom.

She never really loved the name Kram herself (her maiden name was Dankner – so not all that wonderful on its own!), but I think she liked the married identity that the name brought to her.  And that it was shorter than her maiden name (she loved having a full name that was only 7 letters – Del Kram).  And (if truth be told)…that it was Jewish.

And Carrillo was not.

So she came up with an alternative that she carefully proposed to Brian and me.

She explained that since Brian was becoming a doctor…and we were now living in a time when women shouldn’t have to change their names to match their husband (ALWAYS the feminist)…she thought we BOTH should change our names to…

Cohen.  A nice Jewish name.

Brian would be Dr. Cohen: a nice Jewish doctor.

Problem solved.

Except I kinda liked the whole Hispanic (sorry…Spanish) thing.  It’s not often a blonde haired- blue eyed-Jew-from the suburbs of Detroit, could get a new layer to her identity without anyone judging her.

So I took the name Carrillo (mom ended up embracing the whole idea), with all its history and richness, and wore it with love and pride.

I never felt like I “gave up” Kram.  I just wore Carrillo over Kram like the layering of a perfect outfit.

And…when Brian and I split up, I asked him if it would be ok if I kept Carrillo (I asked his mom too).

It had become a significant piece of my identity.  I had two beautiful Hispanic (sorry…Spanish) kids with the name, and the name had been with me for almost as long as I had the name Kram, so it felt like it was mine.

So, I’ve kept it, and I’m glad I’m a Carrillo.

And a Kram.

P.S.  Now that Ally is getting married…to a “Kohn” (I know, the irony is almost scary), I’m leaving her alone to make her own decision.

P.S.S.  My mom would not.

I like purses.

I have a lot of them.

Different shapes.  Different colors.  And…different sizes.

They make me happy.

But I must admit I tend to gravitate toward larger bags.

For me…size does matter (you knew it had to show up somewhere in this one).

I’m not sure why.  It’s not like I put more in a large bag than any other bag (the proverbial “evening” bag being the exception since you’re lucky to fit a lipstick and license in those).

I put the same stuff in every purse that I assume other women put in theirs.  Wallet, checkbook, phone, lip stick(s), Advil bottle (filled with a variety of pain relieving substances), pen, and reading glasses.

Oh…and tissues, card holder (with my She Thinks business cards), tic tacs and loose change of course.

And sometimes my e-reader.  (You never know when you’ll have the chance to finish a chapter.)

And a sweater or scarf.  (You never know when you might get chilled.)

I think a big purse makes me feel secure.  Like I have options.

Ya know…the option to carry more stuff should I have the need to pick stuff up and carry it somewhere.

Maybe it’s a girl thing.

Or a mom thing (God knows, we moms seem to carry a lot of stuff).

But there are women out there who use really small bags and seem to have everything they need in them.

I admire that.  I couldn’t do it.  But I admire them for it (it makes me think they must be VERY organized and efficient).

The other day someone (a guy) saw me with one of my big purses slung over my shoulder and asked me if I always carried my “luggage” around with me.

I wasn’t offended.  Guys don’t understand big purses.  They’re intimidated by them.  Like they’re scare of ‘em (or they’re scared of what they might find in them).

How many times have you heard a guy say “what do you carry in that thing?”

As if we carried a bunch of deep dark scary stuff like poisons or snakes or bags and bags of feminine hygiene products that we’re ready to whip out in public at any time.

But the bag in question wasn’t that big.  It was a hobo bag and it was just a bit stretched out from months of swinging it from my shoulder to the floor, or over into the backseat of the car, or onto the end of the banister where it lives when I’m at home.

But the comment did give me reason to take a good hard look at what had become my “go to bag”…and I was forced to admit that it did look BIG.

Or rather…long.   Months of daily use and abuse had caused it to look more like a woven laundry sack (albeit with a nice leather strap and matching leather bottom) than a stylish shoulder bag.

Not what I was going for.

Apparently I had become too lazy to change my bag and I had entered into a purse rut.

Normally, I love to change my purses to go with my outfits.   It’s part of the game of mixing and matching different colors and textures to make a full outfit, with purses adding another piece to the puzzle.

But over the course of the winter I seem to have ignored all the other bags lining the top shelves of my closet…and my one “go to bag” was obviously now showing the worse for wear.

I’m so embarrassed.

I guess I have no choice but to seek out one of the many big purses I have at the top of my closet, so I have the option to fill it with lots more stuff.