I don't think its much of a secret that I'm not a fashionista but then if you know me, or at least see me from time to time it pretty plain to see; it's not something one can fake. It may come as a surprise however, that somewhere inside me, not too deeply buried, is a girly girl who wishes she could be dressed to the nines or at least be super cute and put together while doing even the most mundane of chores.
There are several obstacles that hinder me in the channeling of my inner fashionista. I think the first and foremost obstacle is laziness. OK, to be honest I don't have a lot of time to put into my clothes, hair and make up. And to be completely honest I still struggled with getting put together when I was childless so I think that brings me back to being lazy; or not caring enough to make it happen. I guess wanting a certain end result with little to no effort put in is another way to define lazy. Darn. I can't get around that one.
Money is another obstacle. We can certainly afford nice clothes but I can't afford to constantly replace the clothes that I stain with mustard, chocolate, tomato sauce, coffee, ink... you name it, if it stains it will make a bee line for my clothes. Of course, the lighter in color and the newer the garment the quicker the stain finds it. So instead of money being the second obstacle it is more like sloppiness.
What the good Lord gave me also gets in the way of fashion. A staple in my wardrobe are ribbed tank tops. I don't wander around Seattle in jeans and the quaintly nicknamed wife-beater ribbed tank but I do have to wear it under most blouses, shirts and dresses. If I don't the general public gets an eyeful of my chest. I think seeing that much flesh makes people uncomfortable and it makes me uncomfortable when you can see a man's eyes fighting the gravitational pull to look at the cleavage. I used to have a boss, that no matter what I wore - it could have been a baggy black turtle neck - whose eyes always strayed and ended up fixed on my boobs. The glazed over look always creeped me out. After a while if I knew he was coming to my work station I would grab some papers and hold them up over my chest to combat his zombie stare. If I was caught off guard I would try squirming away and kind of lower my head so he could see my eyes. I always wanted shout, "Up here! I'm up here!"
All of that to say I don't really appreciate what I was given on top. I could have lived with a bit less. It's so difficult to buy clothes that fit around the bust and the shoulders. If it fits around the bust then my shoulders swim in the extra fabric but if it fits around my shoulders bystanders get the added bonus of the peak-a-boo view of my bra between the gaping buttons as the buttons try their best to keep the two sides of the shirt closed.
Then there is reason that brings me to the title of this post, Fighting Tears in Nordstrum: shoes. I was shoe shopping yesterday and looking for a shoe that would go with just about anything, was comfortable and would work in summer and in the fall. The shoe shopping was brought about by my pregnant feet. Yep. My uterus is great with child but it's my feet that feel pregnant. It doesn't help that I may have a touch of arthritis flaring up in my big toe and that I have some nerve damage from the foot surgery I had last year. Pregnancy + arthritis + nerve damage = persnickety feet which in turn = sneakers.
Gag. I do NOT like sneakers. They are fine for other people and they are fine if I'm going for a walk but I do not like to wear tennis shoes as my everyday shoes. I want to wear something cute. And my standard for cute is pretty granola - brown or red clogs, maybe something a little like a maryjane shoe by ecco, danskno or clarks. But lo, it is not to be.
I told the salesman at Nordrstrum my requirements for the shoes and tacked on, "Oh, and they can't be hideous - or tennis shoes." Without even pausing he said, "It sounds like you need a tennis shoe." I protested, "Nein! No tennis shoes for me! Nein!"
After having the poor man bring me enough shoes to fill a wheel barrow I sheepishly handed him a pair of shoes that one can not deny resemble tennis shoes. They aren't old school style tennis shoes but they are tennis shoes nonetheless.
I started to get really upset as I sat in their super comfy leather chair feeding Gavin goldfish crackers to stave of a meltdown because it was dawning on me that I may never again be able to wear shoes where the top stops short of where the tongue of a tennis shoe would end. The salesman asked me a question and I gave him a short answer and avoided eye contact. I think he understood I was having a moment so he went away. After taking a couple of deep breaths and blinking back tears I collected myself and put on a happy face and paid for my tennis shoes.
My stupid, comfortable tennis shoes.
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