I mentioned yesterday that I was rebelling, and that part of that was buying new high-heeled shoes.
I haven’t routinely worn heels in a long time. I started out like a good Southern girl. My grandmother firmly believed in two things regarding clothes–wearing as many slips as it took for your skirt to be completely opaque in every light, and never wearing low heels. Then I moved away and spent five years living in a town where “dress shoes” meant the metallic Birkenstocks. Then we moved to a town with serious snow. People there considered it acceptable to wear their pajamas to the mall. I’m a little rusty.
I bought serious, grown-up, “investment” shoes. They are stunning. They are high. I bought them the same height as my current, elderly, worn-out heels. I did not consider that I’ve aged ten years since I bought the last ones and maybe should have “invested” in something under 3.5.” They need breaking in, and I need to get used to heels again.
Yesterday afternoon, I got dressed up in my date-night clothes (going out on Monday=perk of childlessness), including the new shoes. They aren’t ready to hit the town yet, but I’ve only got a month before my husband’s company party, where they’re a prominent feature of my outfit.
I was planning an afternoon of reclining on the sofa, admiring my feet. Until I went to get my refreshing beverage and spotted it: the bag of turkey hearts that I’ve been procrastinating about dehydrating for Silas. There was nothing else for it; today was really the last day that they needed to sit in the fridge.
I’ll bet I’m the only woman in America who wore her brand new holiday party shoes to make dog treats.