Hate Mail

Dear new black shoes:
I hate you. Before you get all weepy and start asking "why?" let me just finish because I plan on telling you exactly why. There were plenty of shoes that I could have taken home that day. But I saw the way you looked on the display among the others. Your fake croc pattern, 1 inch heel and mary-jane strap caught my eye. I thought you would be a good sensible shoe that wasn't frumpy. So I chose you. After I unpacked you at home, I should have known that there was going to be trouble when I tried to give you a gel insert which you refused to accept...so I left it out. Against my better judgment, I took you on my trip anyway.

By the time I was dropped off at my hotel I would estimate that we took roughly 150 steps all day. My feet were already starting to hurt. I walked the block to my conference location so that I could register. I then crossed the street to eat lunch. It was at that point I had to call in reinforcements. I had to call my husband so that he could locate the nearest drugstore. Sadly, three blocks later I was nearly in tears as I purchased multiple boxes of every foot salve, blister pad that promised relief. By the time I returned to my hotel room (after getting lost from the blinding pain) I was sure my feet were broken in multiple places.

I have spent a fortune in the first aid section of the nearest drugstore multiple times (which is 3 blocks away mind you). I'm missing a Black Crowes concert because of you. I could be listening to songs that take me back to the days immediately after high school spent being consoled by a dear friend after my first breakup listening to Thorn In My Pride. Thankfully I more closely associate the music with that friend than the ex. But I digress. For as much as I was looking forward to hearing one of my favorite bands, the thought of walking the one block to the concert triggered a panic attack. And so instead I sit here in my hotel room with mangled feet watching tv. I most likely will be leaving you here in the hotel when I pack up and leave....because I hate you.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

I finally made a visit to a salon after an 18 month boycott. (Going gray gracefully is total crap.) In order to support my local markets I made an appointment with a local hairdresser. She was only a couple of years older than me which is something new. I figured this out when we discussed the prospect of new hair color and never once did she point to the cherry or grape kool-aid colored hanks of hair on the board. Before I settled into the chair for the long process of all-over hair coloring (my hair is deceivingly voluminous) I made sure I grabbed a stack of the most recent magazines.

Two and a half hours later I walked out of the salon and my head was still swirling with all of the new information that I picked up. It wasn't the latest reality show/celebutante tantrum/political scandal - instead I listened to some of the juiciest gossip and hearsay this side of the Continental Divide that put those magazines to shame. I listened as woman after woman entered the salon sat in the chair behind me and began pouring out blistering stories that make your daily soap operas pale in comparison. No one paid much attention to me listening intently as I sat in the chair, slunk down so the vertically challenged colorist could reach the top of my head.

I didn't really mean to eavesdrop - it just sort of happened on its own. After the second customer started sharing the story of a woman that caught her husband cheating and subsequently poured hot grease on his nether-regions...I couldn't stop myself. My ears perked up as the story ended with "charges of spousal abuse" and "hospitalization with penile debridement every 4 hours". At that moment I knew I had to pay more attention.

I soon learned stories of why a restaurant changed its name ("sounds better, charge more money"), the latest high school student drug scandal, who was losing their home (this went on for a long time because the customer was getting a perm and seemed to be overly aware of the financial health and status of the majority of the town), the political problem that created the aforementioned foreclosure and then the subsequent divorces and spousal cheating that followed.

Every Sunday I feel like I need to scour the local newspaper for the latest happenings and news. I very rarely learn of anything that I haven't already heard about from friends, neighbors or co-workers. Perhaps the journalists of this little paper should spend more time getting their hair done?

The Spotlight

I tried out for the high school dance team my sophomore year. A friend of mine on the dance team agreed to choreograph a try-out routine. She worked tirelessly going over simple dance steps time and time again. I spent hours upon hours in her basement while she patiently waited for me to "get it". My friend was too nice to tell me that I was not getting it. Instead, she drew pictures (!) of the routine for me to study. A few weeks later after waiting in the wings for my turn onstage, I stumbled and stomped my way through what in the hands and feet of a more talented and coordinated person, would have been an impressive performance. Before the second step-ball-change, the flashbacks of a similar humiliation in grade school flooded my brain.

The girls in my fifth grade class were all a part of our cheerleading squad. We would practice our cheers to recite along the sidelines at the boys' basketball games as well as practice a routine to perform at halftime. I clearly remembered coming to practice after a few days of being out sick from school. I was made to perform the halftime routine by myself in front of the entire group to make sure I "got it" since I missed the last two practices. My palms became sweaty and my eyes filled with tears. I remember being filled with shame and embarrassment when I couldn't get it right.

It was clear that I had forgotten that little bout of humiliation in fifth grade and so 5 years later I set off to do it again. It was after that second round of failure and embarrassment that I finally realized that my talents lie elsewhere - somewhere far, far away. I focused my time on athletics; more specifically, running. I enjoyed it because a) I was pretty good at it and b) it was not performed on-stage. While coordination was not my strong suit, I had just enough to play basketball - it seemed only natural considering my height. But running was where I was most comfortable. I made it a point to avoid the spotlight whenever possible - and so my choice of events was no accident because really, who watches the two mile anyway?

One of the local dance studios here performs two recitals each year with its students: one at Christmas and one at the end of the school year and I try to attend them each year. There are numerous televisions show that focus on dancing that get recorded every week so that I don't miss one. A friend of mine is a member of a ballet company that performs, among others, a Nutcracker performance every year that is a joy to watch. I follow these because they are good at it and they are on stage. I sit along the sidelines, enjoying the show and being relieved that I'm only watching.