Happy Birthday, Old Man!

My old man is finally an actual old man today. My dad's birthdays are something I continue to be awestruck by. While my age doesn't seem to bother me, his age is insane to me. Today he turns 103, OK, OK, he actually turns 79, but it feels like a 103 to me, so that's my story and I am sticking to it.
For as long as I can remember the silent one of the family has dictated through dirty looks, and facial frowns what goes on in my immediate family's household. A simple gesture, a downward turned frown, a mere eyeballing could send shivers down our spines. That is how it has always been for the Ketcham family. Tick Dad off and there would be hell to pay. I managed to give him more wrinkles than a 10 hour bath. Every gray hair on his head is, or probably should be credited to me. My dad had no problem getting what he wanted, if and only if he was patient enough. Sometimes thing would work out beautifully for him, other times, the vein in his forehead would bulge to the point of bursting before I would do whatever it was he wanted. Now a days, I am the least of his worries. Who would have seen that coming? Certainly, not him.
Pop and I look a like, or so I am told. I tell people all the time I have his jowls, like a hound dog, they sag beneath our chins, waggle when we shake our heads and make us look as though we haven't smiled in twenty years. I have his pointy nose, which I have made fun of his reminding him his nose could double as a can opener, in case of emergencies. I have part of his blue eyes and part of my mom's hazel eyes. It is the one spot where both my parents DNA is visible immediately.
As we have aged, my old man and me, we have become friends, of sorts. I will always be his daughter, the one he looks out for, gives unwanted advice, and reminds to change her oil filter, but when we see each other, these days, we really see each other.
I used to treat my dad as if he were an ottoman in the middle of the room and I was Dick Van Dyke. I would skirt passed him, so as not to wake the beast. My dad was a military guy with high expectations of his kids, which, and I am not totally sure why I felt the need to drive him crazy, I decided that I would crush his expectations, and create new ones. My mom's favorite saying is, "Life is not fair." My dad's response was always, "Your telling me!" Where he would then direct one of his famous looks in my direction.
Dad is an only child in every sense of the word. He had daughters, so he remained the alpha male. He is exactly that, even today. He has his chair, his cup and his routine, which if you disturb, you do so at your own risk.
What most people don't know about my dad is he has the heart of a poet, the soul of an artist, which he has practiced both. He used to sketch, pets, kids, things that meant so very much to him. He has written poetry, so surprising it brought tears to my eyes. Being the stoic, silent type, one would never guess behind the gruff facade lies a romantic, a soulful man with deep seated emotions, able to be expressed with nothing but a piece of charcoal or pen.
What I love about my dad, which there are too many things to put in print in a single blog, is that he is complicated, layered, complex. He has allowed me to believe I could reinvent myself, and I have, several times over, now. He taught me if I really wanted something to go for it, do the work, take my shot. Dad is not one to gush over my accomplishments, that is just not his style. He reads my work, and says, "That's nice", the "nice" word being used by him for every occasion. I looked "nice" on my wedding day. He doesn't have to say everything to me. I understood what he was saying beyond his words a long time ago. My dad hugs me hard every time we part company. His strength hasn't diminished, even though his hair has. That hug, that singular act, is what tells me my dad is proud of me. It is his way of saying he loves me, though most times I do get to hear the words, too.
Today, I get to think about my dad and how blessed I am to have him. I didn't understand why he was so hard on me, until I grew up and had to make it on my own. Even then, when I needed him the most, he got in his car and showed up, without hesitation.
I'll be honest, most days I curse the jowls and pointy nose, but the rest of my dad... Well, I feel pretty lucky, I am as much like him as I am.

Birthday In Review

Yesterday I turned 48. I usually don't think about my age. It doesn't seem relevant unless I have had to learn a lesson the hard way, I wake up with something broken that was fine when I went to bed or it happens to be the day when I am required to change the number on the countless forms I fill out on any other given day.
I have never been one to say I am younger than I am, quite the opposite. I usually tell people I am older than I am. Maybe I don't look so hot for 48, but I will rock out 64. I never understood the lying about one's age. Saying you are 35 when clearly you are anything but, makes me cringe. My candles on my cake yesterday were the numbers 100, my kids idea. If that is what they think, so be it, I have earned every year on that cake, mostly due to them, so let them eat cake.
I got a gift this year I have wanted for a while. Years ago, I used to play and sing music. It was part of my everyday life. I was a full blown choir and band geek. Music defined the moments in my life that were the most important to me. I performed before hundreds and a few times thousands of people, with a little nervousness, but now since I am so far out of practice having given it up so long ago, I can't sing in front of my family without having a full blown panic attack. Doing music seemed as though it were a past life. I was talking to my best girlfriend from college, Lovey, when I said I had gotten the gift because I wanted to start playing, and singing again. "I didn't know you sang..." she trailed off. No, I don't remember ever telling her, either. Once out of my small hometown, most people didn't know how much I loved to sing or play. "Yeah," I said, "I used to sing at everything, church, funerals, weddings, whatever was handy. I gave it up when I got married the first time." I heard the sadness in my own voice, and being my best friend she did too. Back then it had been a choice, now, I couldn't remember why that was.
Michael and I talk about everything. He knew I was unhappy having given up the one thing in my life that was only for, or about me. Much like my birth name, it was ingrained in me this love of music and now I wanted it back. I write in my birth name because it's mine, it's who I am to my very core. I love being married, but I question why we need to become someone else in order to do it. The tradition of acquiring your husband's name comes from a time when women were property, rather than individuals. We have romanticized it, in order to make it palatable, but I still feel as though we shouldn't have to if we don't want to. I took Michael's name because he asked me to, not because he expected anything. Being 38 when we got married, I had my own ideas of what I wanted for my future, so he and I talked about our expectations. I have the best of both worlds now, something I could never have imagined years ago. I am Michael's wife mind, body and soul, but when I write I am me, the me who showed up on May 9, so very long ago.
I took piano lessons in college. I had access to a piano at school and home so I practiced, a lot. I was never bored, because I had my horn, the piano, my favorite albums, church choir practice, the latest wedding music to rehearse, I had more than enough things to do to keep me occupied. As I married and had kids, I had no piano, no way to practice, I had nowhere to go with all of my love for music. Beyond singing my kids to sleep, I slowly began to lose my own voice. Looking back it was part of why Danny and I couldn't keep our marriage in working order. His voice was the dominant one, while I slowly shrank away to nothing. I couldn't sing in front of anyone now if a gun were held to my head. I imagine myself saying, "Go ahead and shoot me, this is not going to happen." My fear got bigger as the years went by, and I have sang in public once, for my parents 50th anniversary, a song during a roast I did. It took every ounce of courage I had, to stand up in front of their friends and our family to do that. I figured the odds were in my favor that they probably wouldn't make it another 50, so I was done. For my parents, I would do almost anything. I had to publicly put the "almost" in so my mom wouldn't use it against me.
I sing in front of the dogs. Given enough liquid courage, always the smart way to conquer fear, I might karaoke, but ultimately I keep my light under a bushel.
The gift my family gave me was an electric keyboard, a full size electric piano. I had asked, but I usually give them several options to pick from, so I didn't see this coming. I had pictured a little keyboard I could put on the dining table and peck around on. What I received was nothing short of a big chunk of me I thought I had lost forever.
I cannot play, hardly at all anymore, but what I can do is re-learn what I lost. I sat looking at the keys, playing scales, my left hand lazy, not wanting to play along, but I pushed through anyway. I screwed around with all the bells and whistles, literally there are bells and whistles, it's quite unbelievable, and I began to remember the girl who loved all things instrumental.
Every time I have a birthday, I look back over the year at my accomplishments and my failures. Not so different than New years I make resolutions of what kind of person I want to be in the future. I make a list of what I want to change, what I like about myself and what I may have to let go. I pulled out all of my old instruments, my guitar, my horn, and now the keyboard, and of course the voice I carry. I won't be posting videos on YouTube waiting to be the next Beiber, this is not about that. I just want the opportunity to live as a musician, because for all of my earlier life that is what I was.
As I sat in front of the piano, my son looked at me and said, "How are you reading music?" I looked at him stunned for a minute, "It's my second language, you never really forget." The boy still unbelieving that I could pull the rabbit out of the musical hat than said, " Yeah, but I play all the time and I can't sight read. You haven't done anything in years...that is really impressive." I smiled as I went back to hunting and pecking my way through the nursery songs thinking, "Ah, my first review, it's pretty good. Imagine what can happen if I practice, practice practice."

Congratulate Me, I Retired.

I have been incredibly lucky in my life. I know there are enough times it looks like three legged dog "lucky", but all in all, I think I have managed to do well.
One of the greatest things I have been afforded is to be a mom. I am not sure why I was trusted with this particular life event, but I tend not to question it, lest the big guy upstairs re-think the matter. Let's just say, if it ain't broke...
I always knew I wanted to be a mom. For me it was one of those things like when someone is sure they want to be a doctor, or nun. I knew it was what I wanted from the time I was born. Having four children isn't easy. It was easier when they were little and I could set them down and know for certain they would be there when I got back from the bathroom. I have often thought what a great idea a teenage playpen would be, but I think it would resemble a cage too much, so I doubt if that would ultimately fly.
I miss the days when they were little. I was surrounded by dirty diapers, plastic table settings with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Cinderella and the like. It was our fancy dinnerware, for special occasions. Each place setting had matching silverware, with place mats that were coated in plastic for easy cleaning. Every cup in the house had a lid, which for those rare occasions when I could have a cocktail made it convenient, so I wouldn't spill. My days were consumed with pre-school, macaroni art, baking cookies that matched the latest holiday, and laundry, lots and lots of laundry. I washed my own diapers, so having three in, made my washer groan from the strain.
Mike and I cleaned the house in about an hour yesterday. I felt really good that it was done, but sat stunned that it only took an hour. I remember when just running the vacuum used to take three hours because of the constant refereeing, separating of kids, or moving baby seats, cribs, toys and those rolly walkers out of the way. Picking up after four kids under the age of 5 took every ounce of energy I had. Having someone over to the house meant they, too, had to step over the constant kid droppings. I stopped apologizing after kid #3. Even that took too much effort to deal with.
I was thinking back to the time I had to take the kids to the grocery store with me. I would have the newest baby strapped to my front, one in belted in the seat in the front of the cart and the other two sitting in the actual cart part on their coats. I would have to get a second cart just for food. There I was wielding my way through the isles, talking to the kids who were misbehaving at the time, or anxious for their freedom, cooing to the baby, reminding the one sitting in the front to sit down or they would be put in the corner until they were 18. I juggled coupons, the list, the baby and carried a purse the size of small condo, so I could throw suckers, crackers or cheerios at whoever whined the loudest. Older mom's would stop and talk for only minute because they knew every second counted in that trip.
I remember birthday theme parties. We have had everything from army guys to princess parties to squirt gun fights. I always made the cake, myself, decorating it with toys, icing and the ever present sprinkles. We played every game I could think of, in order for the time to go faster for me, because I had invited more kids to an already full house. It was true, that my kids were a walking birthday party in their own right, but that never seemed to be enough, we always had to invite kids who had no siblings or few brothers and sisters, so they would see us as more circus act than family. I can't tell you how many times I had to explain how we lived to children and adults who should have known better. "Why is your fridge so full?" "Why are there so many beds in your house?" "Why do have three car seats in your van?" And my personal favorite from other moms, "HOW MANY KIDS DO YOU HAVE?"
Many women would ask if I were done having kids, as if I had no self control and needed to go to rehab for fertile women. I would then tell them yes, I was done, and I had lost two of my children who died before they were born. That usually stopped the question and answer portion of the program. I had wanted six children. I had the opportunity to carry six children, two of which did not make it early on. I have always thought they are in heaven with Danny keeping him safe and loved, in a reunion of souls.
Yesterday, Mike and I were cleaning, hanging out together and laughing our heads off as we sipped multiple mojitos. We grow our own mint just for this occasion. The kids were scattered all over town, at jobs, school friends, whatever. They don't tell me and to be perfectly honest, since they are old enough to know better, I don't ask. When they were in high school I used to tell them I was so far up their butts, if someone wanted a family photo they would have to do a colonoscopy on them. Now, I mind my own business unless I see a reason to interfere. So there we were drinking, laughing, having a wonderful time just the two of us. Michael asked if the kids should be here. "No, it's OK. I knew they would be busy. I am just enjoying this."
And that is the truth. I am enjoying not knowing everything all the time. I am taking the time to be with Michael and me, the two of us, without kids arguing, taking my seat or telling me stories I should NEVER hear.
I have no idea what will happen tomorrow for Mother's Day, except Michael and I went shopping for my breakfast ingredients. I opted for steak, eggs, hash browns, fresh strawberries, orange juice and espresso. If they show up,great! If they opt out, well, then I will continue having a great day. I have had lots of mother's days, small case letters. I have watched their first steps, and their big missteps. I have taught them to tie their shoes and drive cars. I have talked until we were both blue in the face, about life, love and respect.
This year I am celebrating the end of an era. I have had an exceptional run here, as the mayor of crazy town. God handed me a job I had wanted my entire life. This year He is giving me my "gold watch" and allowing me to retire, from the heavy lifting. I am very happy to step down and let my kids take over the reigns to their lives. So tomorrow I will be doing what others do when they have a retirement party rather than a traditional Mother's day, eating, sleeping in, drinking, playing loud music and making plans to buy that camper that sleeps two I have been eyeballing since 1992.

An Open Letter To My Mother

Dear Mom,
I never understood as a child, why you were so obsessed with good manners, to the point you carried extra hankies, told me to sit up straight non-stop, and reminded me to cross my legs. I was completely annoyed by the way you prodded me to say "please" and "thank you" before I ever got the chance. You drove me crazy with all your nagging about hygiene, clean rooms and homework. For every moment in my life either big or small, you stood behind me reminding me there was no excuse for sloppiness, bad manners or thoughtlessness...I thank you.
It wasn't until I had my own children did I fully understand the sacrifice. I would have eventually learned, but having kids in my 20's taught me that lesson even faster. When I became a mom, worrying, fretting over the smallest of things, is when the bulk of my "knowing" what you felt, took place.
I was thinking back to the days when I thought you had completely lost it, getting up everyday to do what I thought was nag me, when now I see, you were only taking care of the child you had brought into the world. You never had a day off of being my mom. You still don't get that luxury, yet there you are, having long retired from your employment, tirelessly doing your mom job until there is no time left between us.
There aren't enough numbers for the times I have called you, panicked, scared, elated, exhausted, celebratory, and just missing you. To say I have you on speed dial, is so obvious, so understated it is like saying the sun is hot.
There have been, and will continue to be, an insurmountable volume of times when I miss seeing your face, sitting next to you, having coffee in person, rather than long distance by phone.
Because I am a mom now, too,I know all the hard choices you have made on my behalf. I know every sleepless night you had, I know every heart break you felt, every moment of pure joy. I know, because you taught me to know better.
I am the person I am good and bad, because you brought me here, taught me what you knew and learned from what you could. The good news is, I believe you and I have done alright.
I have lived for the moments when I made you proud. I still wince at the times when I saw the horrified embarrassed look on your face when, well, when I did the exact opposite.
You taught me to cherish family, and now I do. You taught me to stand up for myself,and though it has sometimes been excruciating, I have. You taught me to be nice when what I was feeling was anger, despair or injustice, because you knew that sometimes it pays to wait until the dust settles.
I am writing you this, so you know for certain, I listened, I learned, and now I have taught your wisdom to my own children.
I know I say every time we talk, how much I love you, but this time I wanted to be sure it was in permanent ink. I love you, Mom. Thanks for giving me everything you had, every minute of your time, every loving thought you carried.
I wish for you a Mother's day full of happy memories, people who love you and cheesecake.

Sometimes I Am Such a Big Baby!

A week from yesterday will be my birthday. I have been saying I am 48 for some time, now. I guess, once I reached a certain age I just needed the extra time to get used to saying the number. I am more than officially pushing 50, I have my front half leaning in, while my back half languishes in my 40's, resisting the decade that marks half a century.
Every year my birthday would roll in amongst proms, graduations, retreats, all kinds of busy. Every year I would say the same martyred, tired Mom speak of, "That's OK I don't really need anything. You don't have to bother..." I would emotionally crap on whatever was coming my way. In my head I would think, "It's too much bother, my age doesn't make a difference, we could save the money and get that new coffee pot we have been wanting..." I describe that as tired because that is what I made my family when it came to having a celebration for my birthday. By the time I was done bludgeoning them with all the insignificance of the day, they would walk around zombie-like, unable to process what they were supposed to do. If they did absolutely nothing, they would be considered selfish, if they celebrated anyway, they would be scolded for not listening to my wishes. I pulled the ultimate girl card. I made it impossible for them to win, or break even, for that matter. Regardless of what they wanted to do, I made sure they got it wrong.
I admit that is my least precious trait. I think all women have it genetically imprinted on their psyche, just how to make a situation into a no-win one. This is something I have been working on, this birthday fiasco, I created for myself. I celebrate everyone's birthday for practically a week, but when mine rolls around, I can't seem to get it right...until this year.
This year, I asked for everything. I don't expect anything, really, not because the family doesn't care, but because I gave them all kinds of options and now I just can't wait to see what they come up with. Packages have been delivered, secrets get whispered behind my back, lists are being made...I tell you, I am very excited about seeing what they have come up with. Michael asked me what I wanted for my birthday meal. "I want steak, grilled onions and mushrooms, a leafy green salad, ooh, and chocolate cream pie instead of cake!" "Well, that was fast!" Michael looked shocked. I smiled broadly, shrugging my shoulders, lost in the idea of a chocolate cream pie, which I have not had in years. I want to celebrate me for a change. I have done the whole self deprecating thing, or the whole Martyr Mommy thing. Now, I just want to have a good time.
This year is not really about my age. 48 doesn't mean much to me, except that I am still here, and I am happier every year I get to say that. I smile more than I frown, now. My temper has been softened, partially because I am lazier and getting angry takes so much effort, and partially because I have the benefit of perspective. I am infinitely more patient than I have ever been in my life. I'll be honest, it shocks me, how patient I am. I had given up hope of ever having the ability to wait and see. I think last year has much to do with the recent acquisition. Last year and all that moving, packing, unpacking...it taught me to shut up and wait. It was a good lesson I hope to never repeat as long as I live. Having put that in writing means I will definitely repeat it. It's part of a private joke between God and I. It's the literal definition of a location joke.
So I am giddy as a school girl, anxiously waiting for my big day to arrive. Whatever happens, I am certain I will love it. I plan to take the entire day playing loud music, drinking champagne, eating the fatted calf, and gobbling up the pie. Rumor has it in the house that the day before my birthday is Mother's Day and there may be cheese cake after the big brunch. Michael is off for several days coming up, my birthday included. He did tell me one thing we will be doing over our four day weekend, which is planting flowers. For this is why I love him so much.
Years ago when I was alone with the kids, it was awkward for me to celebrate Mother's Day for myself. The kids had no one to go to help them, so they felt bad they were too little to do anything on their own. I hated seeing how sad they were, so we made a tradition of buying plants and putting flowers in the garden. Instead of having a bouquet that would eventually fade, I would have flowers for months that reminded me of my children. They loved the idea, until they found out they had to help garden. They would always rally and participate, laughing at each other, and appreciating the work at the end of the day. They always noticed our flower garden after that, too. Once the plants took hold and started to bloom, they would say, "Mommy, did you see the flowers? They look so nice!" In the spirit of that tradition, Michael plans to take me to get some flowering vines to put in by our wine bistro. Every time I look out the large arched window I will be reminded of my children, my beloved husband and the year I finally got my act together and just let it all happen.

Here's What I Know For Sure

Today was an unseasonably, beautiful day in Houston, Texas. Our air is usually thick by now, with the heaviness of the moisture hanging in the air, but today it was breezy, cool, with windows open, the coolness wafted in the house. What can be oppressive, today felt like sweet relief.
I found that interesting considering the history we were all living. I found it to be a divine intervention of sorts. I saw it as a sign.
Today we remembered our dead, our sacrificed, that in the recent past wandered our country like the lost souls they were. They died in tragedy, in hopelessness, in agony. Every type of American was killed on September 11, 2001, from the aged to the infants, every shape, size, race, creed, and religion died on that day and on foreign soil since. I remember how we all wanted, begged for, demanded that we stay present, ever watchful for any hope of capture of a terrorist who tried to destroy the America we have loved our entire lives. We waited, sometimes impatiently, but always vigilant, keeping constant our demand on our government that they not forget, that we as a people not forget those we lost on that fateful day, and in war.
Friday the world celebrated a wedding, a joining of two people, who happened to be born into power. John Paul, who pushed hard for the church, his and mine, to begin to see the world as one, rather than as separate, was celebrated for his contribution in love. And today we got to lay our dead to rest... finally.
I know we all heard the whispers of those who were lost in the turmoil, the tumult, the disaster. We all bore witness to the abject horrified terror that had been inflicted on the innocent. It now gets to become our history, rather than part of our present. Yes, we are still at risk, but the message we have sent to those who would try and harm us is clear. We will wait, we will search, we will get justice for those who cannot represent themselves. We will not forget.
Any president would have handed down the order. Two presidents, who have little in common, had a singular goal for the people they serve. It was not Congress, or the President who brought us our justice, who honored our dead, it was us. The special forces, the navy seals, the people gathering intelligence, they are not famous, or powerful, they are us. They risked life and limb, just as the fire fighters did, just as the armed forces did, in order to release our tortured souls. They heard the demands of the rest of us, the whispers of the dead, the promise that was made on their behalf to make this right.
So this is what I know for sure, although this is not the end of things, what I feel is, it is a new beginning. For those who thought we were short sighted, small minded and would forget the promise we made, today showed that we are not a people who lose sight of what is important. We, Americans, are patient, resilient, and mindful of what our duties are, and the debts we know we must repay.
I did not dance in the street over a dead terrorist, who disrespected life, honor and love. What I did do was give up my gratitude for every man, woman and child who was sacrificed. I prayed for every soldier who boarded a plane as one person to land in sand becoming another. I felt great solace in my heart, the powerful feeling of peace, that the promise had been fulfilled, the souls had been released and the love, the pure love was what would continue for God, country and people.
I remain humbled, awe struck by the amount of generosity, heart-felt good wishes and sense of duty the people in this country feel, and act on.
While the military remains on the job, working tirelessly, day and night in a foreign land, to push the last of the hatred out to sea, we can wake up tomorrow and get back to doing what we always do; looking to those who need our help and give what we can. Hang on Alabama, we are on our way. We did not forget.

It's All About the Shoes

I am a shoe girl. This means my shoes are VERY important to me. While I am not one of those women who spend tons of money on a single pair of shoes, I have certainly spent my fair share on several pairs of fashionable footwear. Where some women covet certain designer clothes, I covet certain types of shoes. When we moved I paired down my shoes, quite literally. It broke my heart, but I needed to participate in the downsizing of household items, even my shoes. I am the type of woman who could easily spend hours shopping for the perfect shoes for a single outfit. I love all the colors, heel sizes, strappy versus non-strappy, open toed versus closed toe, and patent leather versus mat. If I buy a dress, you can bet your bottom dollar the shoes are not far behind. I confess, I have never bought a single dress without knowing I would also be shopping for the perfect shoes.
Having admitted this, which is the first step toward recovery, I must also tell you, I have made several huge shoe faux pas while traveling. Of course, I packed the appropriate shoes for the trip, only to find myself in a predicament where my feet became massive causalities in unforeseen adventures. One example was back in 2002 when we went on a family vacation to San Francisco. Michael has never let me forget how ridiculous I looked without my proper foot attire. Michael decided we would walk everywhere we could not take public transportation. I had packed my favorite very comfortable sandles. This normally would have been fine if we had been anywhere except the hill capital of the world. We walked for three solid days up hills and down hills. I hadn't packed a single pair of socks or tennis shoes. It never occurred to me that the excessive climbing would effect my feet the way it did. After day two, my feet were basically bloody stumps. Desperate for some relief, I borrowed a pair of my daughter's socks, yes, oh dear God, to wear with my sandles, since I had no other shoes. The other issue which added to my nightmarish fashion was I had no idea how cold it was out west in August. I took shorts with only a single pair of cropped pants. I was freezing, crippled and quickly losing my pleasing personality. When I walked out of our hotel room, I was sporting these horrifying loose cropped pants and socks with sandles. Did I mention the many cameras I had hanging around my neck? As you can imagine, no one in my family stood anywhere me. We went to China town for lunch and the family doubled over laughing at me and my crazy clothes. Insert a thousand jokes of your choice.
Last fall I once again fell into the shoe trap, but I still, to this day, contend it was not my fault. I had the proper shoe attire for the activity, carefully planning so as not to repeat the San Francisco disaster of 2002. I had on a pair of hiking shoes I bought specifically for climbing hills, mountains and the like. Mike and I have been together long enough for me to know not to wear anything on my feet that is remotely attractive when we are outside. We were hiking on our first day in Arkansas, when without cell phones or any kind of map, we got lost on the side of the mountain. What started off as a leisurely hike, ended up with us hiking for hours trying to get our bearings from the position of the sun. With most of the day gone, we finally found our way back to the path that would lead to the car. My feet were once again bloody, blistered, unrecognizable gnarled stumps.
Michael has instilled in me the need to pack light. For a shoe girl this makes for some interesting choices. It is pure hell for me to pack what I need instead of what I want. But since he is adamant, I do my best to keep my shoes to a minimum. Since my feet would no longer fit in my hiking shoes due to the overwhelming swelling, I needed to go to the nearest super store and buy what I can only describe as granny tennies, befitting someone who eats at four o'clock, and wears track suits. I got these hideous white shoes, with Velcro closures, flat soles in extra wide. I wore them for days until the swelling in my feet subsided. I wore them with everything. My large, discolored feet would not squeeze into anything that even remotely looked like MY shoes. I finally got to wear my own shoes again on the next to last day of a two week trip.
Today, I purposely bought the most ugly shoes I have ever seen in my life. I needed tennis shoes and was putting off the purchase until I could get the ugliest shoes which boasted they would work out your legs and butt while you walk. Normally, I would be put completely off buying something like this just because of the amount of ugly, but I am trying to reshape my body, battling nature and gravity. I will gladly take all the help I can get. I already walk several miles a day, so if I can increase the amount of exercise I get, then sign me up. I was looking down at my orthopedic monsters. As I was sweating profusely, all I could think of was, "This better be worth it!" My new shoes look like corrective shoes rather than the usual fun and fashionable footwear I love putting on. In my head I kept saying, "Run, Forest, run!"
I am consoling myself with the idea that not many will see me in my klunky butt building shoes. I walk when most people are at work, so few if anybody will even know I have them, except for this blog of course, which is international, crossing over into countries I have only dreamed of. I figure if they read this, they too are may be considering the ugly shoes in order to cheat the system.
I can say at least this time I am wearing the abject ugly on purpose in the privacy of my own neighborhood, instead of hundreds or thousands of miles away from home. I know for certain I will once again sport some ludicrous clothes or shoes due to a packing failure. I know that Michael who never has such comic moments or ever looks out of place will have the laugh of a lifetime at my expense. Being the reigning queen of Dorkdom, this will remain my lot in life. All I am really hoping for at this point is that my newest uglies will help at least my body to look OK while I am sporting my crown.
For the record there is no photographic proof of the San Fran debacle, I checked just in case. This is why I am the one who takes most of the pictures on our trips.