I don’t ask for much in this world.
I’m pretty low-key.
I just started having a standing hair appointment in the last year or so. (Feel like a grown woman with my every other Thursday at nine joint).
After giving birth, my feet went up a full size and a half. They only came back down a half-size.
A year later, I realized that all my cute shoes were just taunting me from my closet. I stacked them neatly in the foyer of my apartment and parceled them out. To my little sister, to TG’s mom and a few pair to charity. Done. It’s over. I got big feet.
It’s hard to start a shoe game from scratch.
Especially when you have no good reason to buy cute shoes. I’m a freelancer. I haven’t been to an office since 2000. What on earth do I need a cute shoe game for?
After I came to grips with my new shoe size, I began to slowly but surely purchase new shoes, mostly cute flats.
Just picked these up last week.
Well. I blogged about my shoe game months ago. About how I had this one pair of shoes I depended on when I needed to shine. I live for these shoes. Whether I’m wearing skinny jeans, a flirty dress or a tight mini, I slip into these and feel like I’m doing it.
They made me do a double-take in the window of the store. I slipped into them and bought them on the spot. You know how it is when you find the shoe.
Last week, I had a pep talk about marketing my book from Bevy Smith. (Google her. She’s fab). I told her that I was nervous about promoting my book next summer. I don’t do television. And haven’t done much in the way of marketing myself. She asked me: If you get a chance to push this book on The View or The Wendy Williams Show what do you see yourself wearing?
I thought about it. And then she asked me if I had that outfit in my closet. And I said yes, I do. She said. Dress like that whenever you go into the City. Dress like that when there is even a 5% chance that you could run into someone who will be important to you marketing this book. Be a brand!
But Miss Bevy, I said. I’m on my way into the City right now to listen to Alicia Keys’ album. And it’s pouring down rain.
Miss Bevy said, you go out there and make it sunny! Shine, chile! Be bright! Be a star!
I threw on my wrap dress from Target. Put on my happy shiny raincoat and The Shoes. Even though it was pouring rain. I put make up on. Picked out my fro. Pushed out my boobs and strutted into NYC.
I was channeling Bevy. And Wendy Williams. And Cher. And my momma. And every other fab chica I know.
I was switching y’all.
Got to the studio and this deliveryman said, “Work it, sista!”
I turned around and winked at him and kept it moving.
Yes I did y’all!
Went up to Alicia Keys’ management office. A young lady ushered me to a conference room.
“Right this way.”
I see all these young kids, popping gum, looking fly. I’m thinking, damn. I know I’m old. But these kids are music critics?
She sees my confusion and says, “You’re here to audition to sing backup for Alicia, right?”
Ow! Hot damn!
No, I said, I’m here to listen to the music.
Oh, she said. Really? Right this way. I joined my other drab writer friends, (sorry Smokey. But really a t-shirt and jeans? My goodness.) and listened to Alicia Keys’ new joint while swinging my heels.
You could not tell me I was not doing it!
Yes, I was!
I felt good, y’all.
Miss Bevy was right. You have to walk out the house like you mean. Switch it. Channel somebody else if it ain’t you.
Cause this girl right here? With the cute dangling earrings and the cuff bracelet she never wears cause it’s never a special enough day?
That ain’t me. That’s me channeling who I wanna be.
And this right here:
That’s not me either. But I like her. She’s confident! She’s brass. She don’t take no tea for the fever! [Sob!]
Anyway. That version of me sashayed on home. To my run down house that needs more repairs than I can afford.
And I was met by the newest member of my household.
That’s Junior. Part Pitbull. Part Boxer. All cute and cuddly and sweet.
Junior is six months old. He needs a lot of exercise. Or he destroys things.
I make it my business to take Junior to the dog park every day.
When I went to Santa Fe, I was sure to hire someone to pick Junior up each day and take him to the dog park for a few hours. And then I had my nephew come over in the evenings and walk him before TH came home.
Junior eats food you can only buy at premium pet stores. Organic. I spend more money on his food than I do on my own. He drinks water from the Poland Spring bottles we have. Not tap. Oh. And I clean up his shit when I take him for a walk.
In return, Junior licks me. Jumps on me. And occasionally tries to leap into my bed and sleep between me and TH. (We kick him out. Then he goes to TG’s room, who allows such nonsense, and sleeps with her.)
Junior’s okay with me. I like him. He’s a great addition to the family.
But now this mofo has gotta GO. And I mean TODAY.
I laid in bed, resting my dogs after a day of teetering around the city in 4-inch heels. Ended up drifting off for a quick nap. I popped up to go pick up Tog from daycare and nearly tripped and fell over Junior and his new toy:
Why couldn’t he chew off Tog’s pinkie instead? That could be reattached!
Okay. You might be thinking. It’s just a pair of shoes.
WELL YOU’RE WRONG.
That’s more than a shoe! That’s a way of life. That was my inner Bevy Smith, my inner Tai Beauchamp. My inner Tyra, Oprah and Wendy trifecta.
I felt a palpable horror take hold in my chest when I reached down and picked up my shoe. Junior just got up, walked away, nosed into my closet and proceeded to take the other shoe out of the box in which I put them when I came home.
I’m done. I’m through. Back to Schlumpville.
And all because of that dumb dog.
Why won’t anyone let me be great?