I think it’s safe to say Spring is here – as evidenced by the copious amounts of mucus currently congealing in the back of my throat. It seems like Mother Nature is finally going to let me wear a pair of cute shoes as opposed to the galoshes and snow boots I’ve worn exclusively for the past four months. Party on my feet!
So last week I set about rummaging through the bins of off-season clothes I have shoved under my bed and dug out a summery pair of slip on sneakers. I bought them a little over a year ago – while my poor little head was just starting to grow stubble and housed a brain dumber than a cast member of the Jersey Shore. While all the chemo drugs had worked their way out of my bod, I was still struggling a little with standing faints and fumbly fingers, so slip on sneaks were perfect!
I remember being thrilled to find such a cute pair of Merrells in my size at a discount store. Despite being 5’10”, I wear a size 8.5 or 9 shoe. I have short, fat feet. If my body was the cast of Chelsea Lately, my feet would be played by Chuy. I think that’s why I fall over so often. Tall things should have a wide base. The end.
Anyway, I bought the shoes. Of course I did. I LOVE Merrells. I’m embarrassed to admit what percentage of my shoe collection is squishy, comfy, decidedly non-sex-kitten-esque Merrells. Yet despite my new sneaks being perfect on paper, I didn’t wear them very much. They weren’t very comfortable for some reason. They pinched and never felt quite right.
Having not worn them in six months, I forgot they weren’t my favorites. I shoved them onto my feet and shuffled out the door to meet Gwen at the very same discount shoe store. Shifting from uncomfortable foot to uncomfortable foot, I strolled the aisles looking for shoes that might work with Gwen’s wedding dress.
Since I can only maintain the illusion of selflessness for about fifteen minutes, it wasn’t long before I was scanning the sizes on the stack of boxes beneath a display of Merrell sandals. My brain, addled by allergies and blinking fluorescent lights couldn’t pluck the right shoe size from it’s memory bank. What size do I usually wear in Merrells? Why would I forget such a thing. Oh hey, dumbass…take off the shoe you’re wearing and look. Why didn’t I think of that? Oh wait, technically I did.
So I bent my knee behind me, reached around, pulled off the shoe, and stuck my poor unsuspecting nose far too close to the now moist inner lining as I peered at the size – “7.5.” Seven and a half? I lowered the shoe from my face and took a deep breath as my brain slowly churned. Wait, maybe that’s the UK size. I held my breath and stuck my face back into the shoe. “UK – 5.” Well that explains a LOT. Then the lights started to dim as the toxic foot fumes replaced all the oxygen in my lungs.
Let this be a lesson to you – do not shop under the influence of chemo. In other news, I now have an excuse to buy a new pair of shoes. I think I’ll wait until the brain has recovered from allergy season, however.
Speaking of shoving things where they shouldn’t go – for this week’s Craftastrophe post, I found an artist dedicated to creating ceramic uteri filled with…well…quite a variety of things. It’s time to start thinking about Mother’s Day gifts, after all.
I was about to close this out with “stick a fork in me – I’m done,” but that just seems extra inappropriate after perusing all those clay wombs. I’m going to stop talking now. Probably.