Sometimes I wonder if I share TMI (too much information) on my blog. Today is one of those days, which is why I will get in, drop off this nugget and scoot out with my dignity in tact. So here I go…
For two years I wore a boot with a bad heel. No, not in the Run DMC Peter Piper-esq “bad meaning bad, but bad meaning good” sense, but as in bad meaning bad. Somewhere between a Girls Night Out in early 2013, a hot date in December of 2013 and a DC dance floor in 2014 the tap of the heel of my sparkled, ankle-length bootie met its demise. And guess what, I still continued to wear it. Yikes!
Clacking to and fro looking fabulous from the ankle up, I was also sounding foolish from the heel down to those with a keen ear who could hear the click, clacking, pitter pat of my size 10 transporters making their presence known sometimes before I did. Why did I do that knowing all I needed to do was get them fixed? I don’t know. Complacency? Possibly. Not wanting to invest in something that was already a costly investment? Could be. Hopeful that no one would know? Quite the option. Mad because it “seemed” like I was always having to fix things? Maybe. Waiting on some shoe angel to swoop in, hear me clacking and fix my problem for me, miraculously delivering my shoes to the cobbler for upkeep? That’s likely. Or was it plain ol’ laziness? Perhaps.
Anywho, this morning I woke up deciding it was finally time to cut out that clacking. Pretty boot season is in full effect and I need to fully represent. Enough of me having the power to fix things, while pretending like there was no problem, having to sit with my leg gingerly crossed at the ankle so the exposed heel would not be exposed. After leaving a luncheon today I plan on heading straight to the shoe shop with not one, but two pair of shoes. Yep. I’m going all in, people! And I’m going at it alone too, having, in the past relied on my daddy, my ex-husband, or whatever lovely guy friend I had to handle matters of that manner. (Shout out to those who, dare I say it, spoiled me in that regard.) It dawned on me that I have never had shoes fixed before myself. There’s got to be some hidden lesson in there for me somewhere on top of not walking around with tapless shoes. So, I’m patting myself on the back in advance for walking out this small step. (Get it? ‘Step’ as in boots, as in “these boots were made for walking”? Ha! Ha!)
I get it, finally. Those boots represent life. They represent the things we all have or face in life that we just don’t want to deal with for whatever reason, settling for them being less than their best with not much surface reason in mind. So we carry on seemingly business as usual with clacking in the background. Enough of that clacking!
I believe with my whole heart and my new heels that this small step will take me to leaps and bounds so much bigger than boots. So the next time you see me rocking those beautiful booties, know that you won’t hear me first. If you clack, I won’t clack back…LOL! (I crack me up!) Do know also, dearies, that the next time I come in those surprisingly comfortable, black, suede, sparkled-heel, ankle-strapped booties I’ll be coming correct, and the boots are only the beginning!
One thought on “Cut Out That Clacking”
Honestly, Angela, I believe you could squeeze a parable out of an ice cube. A good one too.