Muchness and Light

I felt like there was something missing in my day-to-day life.

I bought a new pair of shoes last week.

That, in and of itself, is not newsworthy.  I've tried really hard not to turn Muchness and Light into a journal of my daily activities, though I certainly have revealed more in this forum about my daily life than the average bear might share.  (My blog is my woods sometimes, isn't it?)

But I bought new sneakers.  They're black with teal laces and trim, plus a splash of hot pink—totally unlike the pink and purple that tend to attract me. 

The last time I bought sneakers was almost four years ago.  I'd started walking to feel better, taking the first steps toward what would be a 115 pound weight loss.  Those metallic magenta Nikes have carried me over at least 3,000 miles.  They adorned the major milestones of my last four years, and they were the strange, symbolic foundation for the deep transformations that took place within me.

Three Christmases ago—the last Christmas DH and I were together—I asked for new sneakers.  DH bought me a pair of pink and purple Nike Dual Fusion 2s that I picked out.  They were exactly what I wanted.  Exactly what I told him I wanted. 

Those shoes never fit right.

They were too high at the opening, rubbing uncomfortably against my ankles.  The toe box was cut strangely, and sometimes my pinky toes would go to sleep. 

I never wore them more than a dozen times, always going back to my well-worn metallic magentas. 

Those shoes became strangely symbolic of my marriage.  The ones I bought for myself, that I wore to protect me as I moved again through my life, were comfortable and supportive.  I've never met anyone else who had those same shoes.

The second pair were a gift I picked out—as I always did for gifts for myself.  They were something I asked for that DH gave me when he had a reason, but they were never right.  And I saw them everywhere on other people's feet.

I have been terrible about self-care during the last year-and-a-half.  My 115 pound weight loss is now a net of about 100 pounds.  I haven't been walking, let alone working out, with any kind of regularity.  My life is the boys and the house and work and school.  When I get free time, I am often too exhausted by everything else to even think about going for a lengthy walk. 

I'm not eating well or sleeping well.  I forget to take my medicine—the mandatory thyroid replacement hormone that will keep me functional and alive.  I'm cranky and bitchy from all of the stress that I know is taking a toll on my body, not to mention my mind. 

I am busting my ass right now to get through school and still try to work when I can, plus clean the house and do the laundry and sometimes cut the grass.  Max and Tricky need attention and time and care, and they deserve to have more than what's just leftover at the end of the day. 

So it's me who gets the leftovers.  It's Stephanie who fights with herself to get a little care and attention.  It's Stephanie who gets lost in her own shuffle and then feels like shit because she barely has the time and energy to touch base with the parts of her who fought so damn hard to unearth themselves from the minutiae that was killing her soul.

But if I don't take the time to care for me, I will have nothing left to give, especially to the boys.  I have to constantly remind myself that I am worth my own effort, even if it means I have to put down a textbook or tell a friend no or refuse to answer the phone.  Even if it means I have to drag my exhausted, flabby ass from the couch and put on my shoes and walk.

I put on my new shoes over the weekend and took the boys (also in their new shoes) to the local greenway.  I did three miles, and it felt good.  It felt right.  And my shoes didn't hurt my feet. 

One foot in front of the other.  That's the only way I'm making it out of this.  One step at a time. 

 

Love me or leave me. Just take it or leave it.

How do you define yourself?

I am the Glamazon—the six-foot blonde (okay, 5'11) with a surgically-enhanced body who loves to sparkle in heels and shiny lip gloss.  I am the Glitter Slug, who leaves a slow trail of spangles behind her wherever she goes.  Several times lately I've made reference to myself with a very colorful, publicly-inappropriate characterization that includes the words "batshit" and "beast".

Growler called me out on it, to listen carefully to what I was saying about myself, both to others and to me. 

"Is that all that you are?" she asked.

I am a mother, a writer, an ex-wife.  I'm a friend, a confidante, a lover.  Sometimes I am an enemy and a source of vexation and misery, both from my own perspective and from others'.  And sometimes I am a raging fucking bitch.

At any given moment, all of those things are true.  Who I am is relative to when I am, as well as to whoever is on the receiving end of my energy. 

With the boys, I am perpetually the mother, though sometimes I am the enemy.  With my parents, I am always the daughter, though I am also sometimes still just the child.  With my friends, I am a strange mix of mother and daughter and ex-wife and friend and confidante, all wrapped up in a big, glittery bow. 

With men, though, I tend to be the Golden Kitten (see Persona Non Grata for the full definition) and rely heavily on my sexuality as a defining characteristic.  Honestly, it's hard to miss and garners both attention and acclaim, though sometimes to my own detriment.  I am consistently a flirt but am generally very capable of staying distant from unwanted attention.  When I want the attention, though, that is when the beast blinks her long lashes and licks her bright, shiny lips in anticipation—both theirs and mine.  I am very adept at using my charms to get a man's attention, as well as to keep it if I think it's waning. 

There's an aftermath of letdown that can come from that, though.  The initial rush of lust may ebb quickly, especially if I become bored.  If I find a man to be uninteresting or substantially less intelligent than I, I will back away almost sadly; to have put the energy into it just to be disappointed—in another person or in my own judgment—feels fruitless.  I know in my head that there's something to be learned in those exchanges, no matter how brief, but it still can feel like a waste of my damn time. 

Sometimes I am just a mess.  I can be a petulant, little brat.  I can have moments when I dismiss all of the lessons I've learned and just screw the fuck up. 

All of these definitions of me depend on the moment in my day, in my life, and where I am or who is watching.  The people closest to me are able to see through the bullshit bravado and tell me the truth as they see it.  They are able to see me and to love me, no matter which me I am projecting.  Even when I am infuriating and loud and obsessive and bawdy, they know there are profound moments of quiet and sadness and deep, loyal love that are theirs for the taking—even when they don't ask.  But for me to willingly show those aspects of Stephanie to another person makes me the prey.  It makes me feel vulnerable, all Hunger Games style, like Katniss running toward the Cornucopia for everything she needs to survive. 

The best definition of me is made when all of those things come together, when the Golden Kitten can be still, curled up quietly while wearing little more than her glittery, pink heels.  It's a rare moment, truly, when the pretense can fall away, when I can feel safe and trusting enough to let my guard down and just love another person.  That is when I am most undeniably, most fiercely, and most extraordinarily Stephanie. 

 

Boots and shoes under the sea are done with a whiting.

I love shoes.  I kind of always have.  Not necessarily wearing them, mind you, just having them and seeing them.  I mean, I love to get dressed up (or not) and wear the perfect shoe for that moment, but as soon as I get home, the shoes are off.  The boys have picked up this habit, unfortunately, so there's a constant pile of shoes by the front door, much to DH's chagrin.  I know the argument that it's better for your family's health not to track the dirt and residue from your shoes through your home, but we mostly do it because we're lazy and want to free our piggies as soon as we cross the threshold. 

And the thing is, I don't have to have expensive shoes.  I won't buy super cheap shoes, either, but I'm not a Manolo Whore.  Those are stunning shoes, don't get me wrong!, but I'm too practical to own a $600 (+/-) pair of shoes.  I need comfort, certainly, because I'm unlikely to wear a pair of shoes again if they hurt my feet or are ill-fitting.  I'm not like the Grimm Brothers' ugly stepsisters, cutting off bits of my feet to make a shoe fit.  I'm also partial to my bare feet enough that I won't shove them into shoes that will make them misshapen or hideous.  Nothing grosses me out quite like gnarled old lady feet, with hammer toes and bunions, especially when they're on someone under the age of 40.  If your shoes make your toes point at 45 degrees from their genetic position, please hide your feet from public view.  Seriously.  That's just disgusting. 

Because I'm on my foot soap box, I'm going to continue  this digression for just a moment.    I'm a big Amazon girl at 5'11, and I have appropriately-sized feet.  Guess what?  Any woman over the height of 5'9 is almost certain to wear a size 9 or larger.  Angeline Jolie wears a 9 or 10, depending on the shoe.  Paris Hilton wears an 11.  Sometimes I've been forced to fight a drag queen for the perfect pair of shoes.  I've even been known to loan my shoes to guys who either lost a bet or just wanted to get their girly on. 

Summer will be here soon, which means sandal season.  I love sandal season!  If nothing else, it's the perfect excuse for a regular pedicure.  And there's not much that makes me happier than a good pedicure.  I'm partial to bright, bold colors on my toes, usually metallic hot pink or purple, or the occasional red or blue.  I'll do designs sometimes, but I don't usually go for the French or American look.  (I'm not opposed to it on principal or anything.  It just doesn't suit me personally.)

But sandal season opens up a whole new can of potentially-disgusting worms.  First of all, trim your damn nails.  Those women whose toenails stick out way past the ends of their toes, like creepy long fingernails that have been glued to their feet--UGH!  It makes me want to gag.  They'll have been stylishly painted, in a multi-colored French pedi with some design on it, which is at least $20 more than the regular pedicure price.  Seriously?  Any nail tech who doesn't suggest you cut that shit needs to have their license revoked. 

And, ladies, if your toes hang off the ends of your shoes, they don't fucking fit!  If you're unsure of the size of your feet, have them professionally measured.  It's not that hard and just takes a moment.  Any woman who's ever had a baby knows there's a chance your feet will change size during pregnancy.  If they do, they don't shrink back; it's a permanent change.  (Thank God mine didn't change, or I'd be wearing skis everywhere I went.) 

Okay, I think I'm done bitching.  I feel much better, by the way. 

DH and I go back and forth about my love of shoes.  He was once appalled to learn that I bought a pair of shoes to wear with one specific outfit.  "You don't have anything else to wear them with, except that outfit?"  Well, duh.  That's how it works sometimes.  You start with a great accessory and build the look around it.  I can always find a fabulous outfit to wear with shoes I already have.  It's much, much more difficult to find an amazing shoe.

Shoes are often like a perfect little emotional accessory.  If you see a pair across the room and they whisper to you of their adorableness, it's like shoe kismet.  You just gotta try 'em.  If you do and you love them like they say you will, they can completely change your whole outlook on life when you wear them.  It's like the feeling of new shoes (Don't even get me started!), but it happens every time you wear them.  If you ignore the pleadings of the adorable shoes and leave the store without at least trying them on, it will haunt you for the rest of your life.  Any time you see a similar shoe, or you're in that store again, you'll remember how you almost held the perfect shoe in the palm of your hand.  The one that got away, and all that jazz.

 

Thankfully, my feet have stopped growing.  Shoes I buy now will still fit me in ten years. In fact, one of my favorite pairs of shoes are these black wedges with buttons that I've had for twelve years.  They still look new and fit beautifully.  And if the shoe is special enough, it will never, ever go out of your own personal style, regardless of trending in fashion.    

I cleaned out my closet last weekend and got rid of some shoes I didn't love anymore.  I wasn't ever going to wear them again, so they've been banished from my princessdom.  I had to make room for the fancy new ones I recently bought.  I've also requested a very specific pair of shoes for Valentine's Day, but I don't want to jinx it.  I'll share them when the time is right. 

My vices could be a lot worse, honestly, so DH will just have to deal with it.  He has his love of computers and guns, and I have mine of music and shoes.  Maybe we'll find a way to combine them.  Pink glittery, strappy sandals are okay for the range, right?  Good!  He can borrow them any time he wants.