I’m not a shoe person. I couldn’t distinguish a sling-back from a pump. In my closet there is a pair of white reebok tennis shoes, blue flip flops, and some strappy black things my cousin bought me to wear to a wedding where I ended up twisting my ankle after drinking several mojitos. She blames the alcohol. I blame the shoes.
Most of my days are spent barefoot. I slip my shoes off at work and run my feet into the carpet under my desk. When I get home, the first thing I do is kick off my shoes. I won’t get near a pair of Jimmy Choos and just thinking about Manolo Blahnik gives me athletes foot.
So why am I writing about shoes? A writing instructor planted the idea in my head one day during class and its been there ever since. I tried to ignore it, but it kept popping back up like a ball in a swimming pool. So in an attempt to rid myself of the beast, I decided to say a little something about shoes.
Shoes are overpriced and take up way to much room in a closet. They cause bunions and can be a constant source of back pain. Most of them are ugly and impractical, but we buy them anyway. We ooh and aah over them like they are works of art. We stuff our feet into their awkward shapes and no matter how many blisters they cause or how much pain we are in, we walk on.
It’s not all about woman here. What the hell is a brogue? And why do men need 20 pairs of tennis shoes? Do they even play tennis?
The only good thing I have to say about shoes is that they come in a box. The thing I love best about shoes is the shoebox. Shoeboxes have so many uses from storing nuts and bolts to making doll houses for trolls. To throw one away would be sacrilege.
So there you have it, my little something about shoes. I feel free already and so do my bare feet.
My grandmother was a worry wart. The term may sound archaic now, but in granny’s day, worry wart was as well known as stress is today. As a good granddaughter, I diligently followed in her footsteps, wrapping her mantle around me like a wool blanket. I worried about everything. I worried if my parents would return when they went out for the evening and if my knees would knock during my oral report at school.
As I grew, I began to have grown up worries. Would I ever get married? Would I ever get a job? Would I survive breast cancer and the recession? Would my cat ever learn to use the cat box?
The blanket of worry became comfortable and safe. I didn’t want to leave it even when I began to suffocate from its heaviness. I carried worry around with me everywhere and it hindered my perception of life. My grandmother would have been proud. I was a true worry wart or in today’s vernacular, stressed out to the max.
But I had a choice. Don’t we always? I could be a worrier or change a couple letters and become a warrior. Of course, it’s not that simple. Change never is, but I had hope. I could throw off that blanket, find a room with a clear view of life and begin to conquer my fears and worries one step at a time.
Today, I will no longer be anonymous. This warrior has a name.
We all remeber a favorite stuffed animal from our youth. Perhaps a well-worn, treasured teddy bear. We may even have saved it as a keepsake or passed it down to our children and grandchildren.
My favorite stuffed animal was a bear. I called him Huggy Bear. There was something extra special about this bear, he was real. His name was Curtis and he died last Saturday.
My bear gave hugs. Great, big, bear hugs. He made me feel safe and comfortable and loved, just like your teddy bear made you feel. Most of all, he made me feel special too.
I will miss my Huggy Bear. I still hear his laughter. I’ll miss his hugs. But, I plan on passing down his memories to my children and grandchildren. Showing them pictures and telling them stories of the Huggy Bear that brought so much kindness and joy to so many. The Huggy Bear that was real.
This blog does not have an audience yet. So basically, I’m the only one who see it. It reminds me of being home by myself and dancing around naked. Who sees? Who cares? No-one. It’s exhilarating and exciting.
I can write this blog with no punctuation, leaving out commas willy nilly. I can use words like willy nilly, end a sentence with a preposition and sprinkle cuss words throughout, if I want to. There is no judgement, no criticism, no rules.
If I did have an audience, I would tell them how freeing this is and encourage them to dance naked more often in their lives, in the ways that count. For now, I will continue to write and dance naked alone until I have a whole tribe dancing with me.
Today is Day One of my first blog. There will never be another Day One. This is my first post on my first blog. There will be a second post, and a third and eventually a hundredth, when I will make a cake and celebrate. But today I’m celebrating Day One, because every day has a beginning and this post is my beginning in a journey of moments that will lead to more posts and more sharing and more celebrating.
So, for today, I say thank-you Day One, for without you there would not be a day two and all that will follow.