In the world of gender stereotypes, I am a chocoholic, love to shop and have a closet full of shoes.
Sorry to disappoint the Caliphs of Cliche, but (wrong choice buzzer sound) ... none of the above. Especially about the shoes.
I've never understood the shoe thing. I looked at Imelda Marcos and wondered why. Thought Carrie Bradshaw's obsession was stupid and silly. Marveled that anyone would pay so much for the name Blahnik or a red sole.
My attitude extends back into childhood, when my Donald Duck feet kept me away from all those cute little-girl shoes. The only ones wide enough for me were penny loafers from Sears. Let's see ... for this school year, do I want brown or black? Shoes were boring and necessary, not fun and stylish.
Shoe shopping continued to be a lifetime pain, "pain" being the operative word. I could wear pretty shoes if I was willing to have my feet hurting all the time, or I could buy "grandma shoes," "nun shoes," "orthopedics" or just plain "ugly shoes." Guess what: I opted for pain and the development of bunions. I tried to fit in, wrecking my feet in the process.
Finally, when I turned 40, I decided to stop the nonsense. Wearing heels hurt, so I switched to flats. I still strove for a little style, and finding a decent fit continued to be a chore, but I left behind the notion of shoes as a fashion statement. I had to walk my own way.
It took me a long time and a lot of pain (including an unsuccessful bunion surgery) to learn the simple lesson of not following the crowd ... but here I am, learning it again, this time when it comes to another type of fit: matching a book to its potential readers.
What I'm finding is that the usual venues, like bookstore signings, don't seem to work for Fish-Eye Lens. This paean to island life needs an island or a beach, not shelves and stacks. So forget the city shoes; hand me those flipflops.
Feets, don't fail me now.
Sorry to disappoint the Caliphs of Cliche, but (wrong choice buzzer sound) ... none of the above. Especially about the shoes.
I've never understood the shoe thing. I looked at Imelda Marcos and wondered why. Thought Carrie Bradshaw's obsession was stupid and silly. Marveled that anyone would pay so much for the name Blahnik or a red sole.
My attitude extends back into childhood, when my Donald Duck feet kept me away from all those cute little-girl shoes. The only ones wide enough for me were penny loafers from Sears. Let's see ... for this school year, do I want brown or black? Shoes were boring and necessary, not fun and stylish.
Shoe shopping continued to be a lifetime pain, "pain" being the operative word. I could wear pretty shoes if I was willing to have my feet hurting all the time, or I could buy "grandma shoes," "nun shoes," "orthopedics" or just plain "ugly shoes." Guess what: I opted for pain and the development of bunions. I tried to fit in, wrecking my feet in the process.
Finally, when I turned 40, I decided to stop the nonsense. Wearing heels hurt, so I switched to flats. I still strove for a little style, and finding a decent fit continued to be a chore, but I left behind the notion of shoes as a fashion statement. I had to walk my own way.
It took me a long time and a lot of pain (including an unsuccessful bunion surgery) to learn the simple lesson of not following the crowd ... but here I am, learning it again, this time when it comes to another type of fit: matching a book to its potential readers.
What I'm finding is that the usual venues, like bookstore signings, don't seem to work for Fish-Eye Lens. This paean to island life needs an island or a beach, not shelves and stacks. So forget the city shoes; hand me those flipflops.
Feets, don't fail me now.
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