A lovely woman came up to me at our local shoe kiosk the other day (they’re having a snappy shoe sale) and informed me, “You know you’re old when the latest styles are too dangerous to wear because you may fall and break a hip.”
She was a delightful woman. Never met her before in my life.
“True,” I agreed, and then added. “I know I’m old because all the latest styles remind me of Viet Nam. Everything my daughters put on their feet look like the North Viet Cong cut them out of bicycle tires on the Ho Chi Men trail.
“That’s because everything IS made by the Viet Cong these days, also the Koreans, but mostly the Chinese.”
She laughed sweetly and hobbled off atop pale pink platform sandals.
Lovely woman. Excellent shoes.
Aren’t shoe shoppers the friendliest people and so well informed on the current import-export situation? I believe it has something to do with squashing your feet into the very same pair of shoes that the lady next to you just finished squashing her feet into. It gives you a sense of sisterhood. That’s why bowlers are so warm and friendly, because everyone wears everyone else’s shoes. Nice and cozy.
My shoe wearing philosophy: I’m short. I always wear heels. I’ve told my daughters that the day they see me in flats is the day they should throw dirt on me, because I’m done.
Best shoe related quote: “Those shoes are just too Cha-Cha for words.” (From Steel Magnolias)
Best reason to be a girl: The assortment of shoe choices, of course. I couldn’t be a man because their shoes are so plain, not to mention blah—also boring.
Why shoes are magic: Because you can tap them together three times and cool stuff happens.
The smartest reason to have lots of shoes: So you can justify having lots of clothes to make “outfits” inspired by all the shoes you own.
Shoes that had the most influence on me: Those white Go-Go boots from the sixties that were the coolest, hippest fashion statement ever created by the hand of fashion designers in any time period, and I’m including those saber tooth tiger boots that every one was into in the ice age.
Why I never feel guilty buying shoes: Think of all the jobs I’m providing all those former Viet Cong, Koreans, and Chinese. I’m feeding the peoples of the world and looking too cha-cha for words all at the same time. It’s win-win.
Linda (Well-Heeled) Zern
Friday, June 19, 2015
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Freckle You!
I’m weighing in. I’m sounding off. I’m tossing in my two cents. And I’m doing it before it’s illegal to weigh, sound, or toss my opinion around.
In a day when feelings trump facts or DNA or actual freckle count on actual skin, I want to say that I’m all for relative reality, because there’s a list of stuff I have believed about myself that my society has not believed about me. A. List. Of. Stuff.
But the biggest one is freckles. I reject them as a skin option. I do not identify as a freckly person.
Recently, my husband of thirty plus years looked at me with narrowed eyes, thoughtfully. I could tell he was being thoughtful because his mouth wasn’t moving.
A long minute passed, and then he said, “Wow! You have a lot of freckles. I never noticed before.”
I was less thoughtful. “WHAT???? Who have you been looking at for the last thirty years???? Are you insane???? I look like a commercial for one of those hip clothes companies where they feature freaky people with freckles.”
But he is right. I do have a lot of freckles. Here’s the catch. I don’t want a lot of freckles, in that freckles tend to be accompanied by skin so white, it’s see-through. No, I’m serious. See-through skin. So, imagine my delight with all the folks out there in society leading the way to new and improved genetic realities.
Born a boy? Want to be a girl? Both parents white? Rather be black? Hate your hair? Enjoy hair made in Indonesia? Sure. Sure.
Well, GOOD because I want new skin. I have always felt that I am really a human with gloriously freckle-free skin. In truth, it is the color of golden sunlight, undershot with a hint of glitter. My hair is spun lightning. My check bones are sharp enough to cut glass. And I’m five feet, nine inches tall, so that my wings don’t drag.
That, my friends, is what I feel that I am. And I’m not kidding, so you have to take me seriously. You. Have. To.
If you laugh at me or mock or talk about me behind your hand I will become irritatingly whiney—even bratty. Be warned.
Or . . .
I can embrace the package that “evolution” and DNA and life have handed me, rejoice in the air in my lungs, the wind in my hair, and the grandchildren at my feet. When I look in the mirror I can see that my scars are reminders of battles fought and won against time and cancer. My freckles are a genetic banner of the islands, fiords, and the wild North Sea where my people lived and died and dreamed.
And that more importantly than my outside, is my spirit. A spirit whose Father is God, making me the daughter of Heaven. Who needs human wings?
Linda (Winged Fury) Zern
In a day when feelings trump facts or DNA or actual freckle count on actual skin, I want to say that I’m all for relative reality, because there’s a list of stuff I have believed about myself that my society has not believed about me. A. List. Of. Stuff.
But the biggest one is freckles. I reject them as a skin option. I do not identify as a freckly person.
Recently, my husband of thirty plus years looked at me with narrowed eyes, thoughtfully. I could tell he was being thoughtful because his mouth wasn’t moving.
A long minute passed, and then he said, “Wow! You have a lot of freckles. I never noticed before.”
I was less thoughtful. “WHAT???? Who have you been looking at for the last thirty years???? Are you insane???? I look like a commercial for one of those hip clothes companies where they feature freaky people with freckles.”
But he is right. I do have a lot of freckles. Here’s the catch. I don’t want a lot of freckles, in that freckles tend to be accompanied by skin so white, it’s see-through. No, I’m serious. See-through skin. So, imagine my delight with all the folks out there in society leading the way to new and improved genetic realities.
Born a boy? Want to be a girl? Both parents white? Rather be black? Hate your hair? Enjoy hair made in Indonesia? Sure. Sure.
Well, GOOD because I want new skin. I have always felt that I am really a human with gloriously freckle-free skin. In truth, it is the color of golden sunlight, undershot with a hint of glitter. My hair is spun lightning. My check bones are sharp enough to cut glass. And I’m five feet, nine inches tall, so that my wings don’t drag.
That, my friends, is what I feel that I am. And I’m not kidding, so you have to take me seriously. You. Have. To.
If you laugh at me or mock or talk about me behind your hand I will become irritatingly whiney—even bratty. Be warned.
Or . . .
I can embrace the package that “evolution” and DNA and life have handed me, rejoice in the air in my lungs, the wind in my hair, and the grandchildren at my feet. When I look in the mirror I can see that my scars are reminders of battles fought and won against time and cancer. My freckles are a genetic banner of the islands, fiords, and the wild North Sea where my people lived and died and dreamed.
And that more importantly than my outside, is my spirit. A spirit whose Father is God, making me the daughter of Heaven. Who needs human wings?
Linda (Winged Fury) Zern
Friday, June 12, 2015
GETTING PAID!
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