The Age of Sensible Shoes

I’m no Carrie Bradshaw, but I do love shoes. And I even enjoy shoe shopping. Or at least I used to. But this weekend I realized that I have reached a new low, literally, in my shoe wearing career. Is it the end of the sexy high heel for me?

My daughter is getting married next month. I have my dress, a burgundy red flowing number with a bit of cleavage (she approved this) and a bit of a trailing hem. It calls out for high heels. At least a few inches high. And because it is a Christmas wedding, perhaps a little sparkle.

I have tried on a few pairs and then tried to walk in them. And I just can’t pull it off the way I used to. And even if I could walk in the bejeweled strappy stilettos I am drawn to, they hurt my feet! And I am not willing to make the sacrifice of pain for beauty. So I will have to go low. And probably even wide.

More than a decade as a yogi, walking around barefoot whenever possible, has allowed my once average feet to spread a bit. And pitching all my none-too-petite body weight forward into a pointy toe box leaves me feeling like Cinderella’s step sister, forcing her fat foot into the glass slipper. Well, that dainty Cinder-bitch is welcome to the shoe and the wimpy prince.

But what the hell are my feet going to wear to this wedding?

I’ve always thought that God assigns each women a set amount of time to wear high heels, and I have used mine up. My earlier career mandated the wearing of sexy high heels eight hours in a row. I’ve had my time. As an early childhood teacher, there is simply no need to wear those type of shoes. And my love life has been rather sparse for the past decade, so no date shoes reside in my closet. I am not only out of practice, I am totally out of sexy shoes.

I need to make a purchase!

My daughters indulged me this weekend as I visited them and we shopped near Seattle. We searched in vain for the perfect shoe, even visiting a specialty shop named Only Wide Shoes when we realized how difficult it is to find wide shoes on the shelves. But the shoes in that store looked like they were made for dowdy old ladies. I passed on that.

At Payless I lusted after a four inch stiletto encrusted in glitter. My daughters snickered as I took a few steps and almost face-planted in the aisle. At Nordstroms a nice salesman showed us the only shoe in the entire store that came in a wide width. They were a velvet black…loafer. No way. They were also over a hundred bucks.

So I’m back at square one, with no shoes. My plan is to order a bunch of shoe options online that offer free returns and hope for the best.

Sigh. Getting older requires a lot of letting go. 

But, let’s get some shoes….

 

 

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My Baby Girl is Getting Married

Well, I guess she is not such a baby anymore. She’s 26. And a half. (But who’s counting; certainly not her mother!)

Of course, I have known about Emily’s upcoming nuptials for a while. She got engaged last year, just before Christmas. And she’s getting married a few days before this Christmas. I have a home video of her at eighteen months, rounding the corner to the Christmas tree wearing a pink onesie with Rudolph and his red nose on the front, and as she sees the presents, putting her hands on her belly and saying, “Ho, ho, ho!” She’s the only person I know who does not get annoyed that Christmas decorations hit the stores in September. She has always loved the season.

At her Christmas wedding, instead of throwing rice or blowing bubbles, guests will throw snowflakes. Her colors are – you guessed it – red and green. And she has been planning these details before she even had a groom.

Weddings mark a milestone. They are a significant event in a person’s life. And for that person’s mother, it may be just as significant. I have known my baby isn’t a baby anymore for a long time. She hasn’t lived with me for almost a decade. She’s gone through college, bought a car, and started a career. I’m proud of her. Maybe I’m even a little envious. She has a chance to get it right.

I have a large mixed bag of feelings as “our” special day approaches. I have not seen the ex in many years, and he will be there with his wife who is 30 years younger. I will be there with my date who is 30 years older; my Daddy in his rented tux. Emily’s fiancée is a great guy: just the right balance of charming, geeky, intelligent, and forthright. They are well-suited. He is not what I’m scared about. Life is.

I’ve been to a few weddings in the last thirteen years since my own divorce. I always get a little teary-eyed. But this one is different. This is my first baby. I have a stake in this game. I want – no, need her to be happy. She can’t get her heart broken. She deserves vast amounts of joy. She should have a life that could be pictured on a schmaltzy Hallmark card. Yet I know how rare that truly is.

I guess in the end, all a mother can do is hope and wish for the very best. There will be bumps on Emily’s road. There are on all of our roads. I can’t assign my trepidations to a life and future that is not mine to possess, nor can I protect her from her own troubles, large or small. I will always be there for her in all the ways that I can. Ultimately we all have to row our own boats, weathering the dark storms and celebrating the glorious sunrises and sunsets along the way.

Sail on, my beautiful baby.

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I Don’t Miss My Mother

My mother passed away less than two months ago, on July 16th, after three years of illness. I spent a good deal of time with her through her decline. It was difficult sometimes to see her wasting away, to help her with moving from one room to another until she could no longer do that. I didn’t want to see her waning away, but I didn’t want to not be there. In the end I was wiping her bottom, which was weird but felt right, as if we had come full circle.

In her ensuing absence, I have cried, but not a lot. I kept waiting for a full wave of bring-me-to-my-knees grief to hit, as it did with my brother last year. The kind of grief that leaves you hiccup-sobbing, rocking back and forth as you hold yourself, for if you didn’t, you might completely fall apart.

A whisper voice in my head says, “What’s wrong with you? Your mother is gone and you should be unable to function for at least six months! Didn’t you love her?”

Well, yes, in fact I did. She was my best friend. She was the one who was always there for me.

And she still is.

When my mom passed, I was there with my dad and sister. We sat in her room with her for a while. It was strangely peaceful; her journey was over and her suffering ended, while ours was beginning. How would we make a life without Mom, who had been the center of all things? I felt emptiness. She knew how much I needed her. I would have to be brave and strong on my own now. But then something incredible happened. I felt an energetic shift. I can’t really explain it well. It was nothing discernible, nothing anyone else would see or feel. It was a sudden warmth and comfort deep inside; suddenly she was within me. In a final gift from one who gave so much, she gave me her spirit.

And although I move forward in sadness, I don’t feel like she’s gone. I am surrounded by artifacts: I wear her nightgown to bed, I have notes in her handwriting all over my house (for she was the greatest of note-givers and letter-writers.) I open a book and a bookmark she gave me marks the page. More than that, her voice echoes in my ear when I doubt myself. She lives within me and lends me her strength; she doesn’t need it anymore.

She gave me the gift of unconditional love. I saw things she struggled with and I learned great lessons from her pain. She was there for me always, even in her final days. And she always kept her sense of humor. One of our last conversations was about how weird she felt the dying process was. I wondered how she knew it was time. And she said in her weakening voice, “I feel like I could just jump up out of bed and say – surprise! I fooled you!” I told her it was a pretty elaborate ruse just to make a practical joke.

In my head, I do miss her every day. But my heart is full of Mom’s love and spirit. The final gift she gave me lives on, and now it is my job to live my best life accompanied by her strength. Because she was so much a part of me, she is still there to guide me. And that feels right.Germany + Zepher 124

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Harriet’s last blog post…

a beautiful post written by my lovely sister.

Harriet's Hospice Blog

Hello-

Harriet and I (daughter Christina) have been enjoying creating these posts. They were her last way of communicating with the wider world, to let all the people she knows in the world, that she loves them and wants them to benefit from her experience of being a hospice patient. She felt strongly that there must be other people ‘out there’ who were on the same journey as she; or that their caregivers could read these few posts and learn something that may help. Now she’s finally starting down the path of death, and can’t share her wisdom with you. I’d like to tell you a little about Mom, for her last post.

Mom has always been a facilitator. “What can I do to help?” has been her mantra. Whether it was bringing together the family for dinners or birthday parties, or taking her dogs to the old folks’ home…

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Anniversary

Anniversaries are an odd thing. They remind us to remember something or someone. Sometimes it is something good: a wedding, a birth, a day we fell in love. Other times they are a reminder of a tragic event: a death, an accident, or a crisis. Do you remember the day you got married with sweet fondness? Or perhaps, if you are divorced, that date sticks in your head as a more important one (for me it does!) Does the date September eleventh cause you to pause and think of the day our country was thrust into a turmoil that it has yet to recover from? Or do you have a date that is special only to you and a handful of others, like the date that a loved one passed?

For me, today is one such day. It has been a year since the death of my beloved brother. He died suddenly and unexpectedly. No time to say goodbye, no time to listen to one more of his dumb jokes and pretend to find it funny, or watch a movie with him for the umpteenth time and watch tears leak out of his sentimental eyes.

We never know when it is the last time we will see someone we love (or for that matter, someone we don’t, but I think that counts less.) It’s difficult to understand that, to be fully in the moment with every person we connect with. But since Eric’s death, I have tried.

The anniversary of his death is a visceral thing to me. I can relive everything about it. I was in Boulder at a yoga festival, blissed out from my head to my toes after an hour of chanting. I had practiced with my favorite teacher three times in three days. I was alight with love and peace and a deep serenity. Then the cell phone in my yoga bag vibrated; I got a phone call from my daughter, who was with my brother and found him dead that morning. It was like falling down an elevator shaft. I left the festival, blinking in the sunshine. How could it be sunny? How could people be roaming about in their cute yoga clothes, laughing, doing handstands? Dark grey clouds had closed in on my soul; it seemed incongruous that the world could still function, that there were birds, flowers, trees, and smiles all around me. I don’t know how I drove to my sister-in-law’s house; I’m not sure how I told her.  And my parents.  And my younger sister. All I know is that we all got through it somehow. We had no choice.

Grief is a funny thing. It’s different for each person. It’s personal, and it can be both anguishing and cathartic. Death is an essential part of life and we are all headed there eventually.

Marking a death with an anniversary is honoring the spirit of the loved one we lost. But is there a lesson to be learned, beyond the initial impact of the life and death of Eric’s treasured spirit? Death has been referred to as a veil, a thin curtain that separates the living in this concrete world from the spirits in the ethereal world. But do those spirits ever really leave us? I think not. I can still benefit from my brother’s presence, his belief in me, his love, his strength, tenacity, and humor. That didn’t go away.

So on this, the first anniversary of my brother’s death, I will help the rest of my family celebrate his life. Joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin, for if he had not been so loved, we would not miss him so.

Eric

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A-Z, A Writing Exercise

So, interestingly enough, a recent heartbreak/breakup has inspired me to start writing more. Everything can become a story, and in this way we can process deep pain and turn it into art. As writers, we store away story ideas and sometimes find them later. This is what happened to me today, as I was wandering around in the computer files and opened a folder full of little bits and starts that I had forgotten about. I came upon this writing exercise, and did not even get it until I got to the end. Using every letter of the alphabet, create a short story with a sentence starting with each letter, in order.

Coiincidentally, this story was about a breakup I had roughly seven years ago, thus lending me a bit of perspective on my currently mangled heart.

And here it is, A – Z:

And this is what I wanted.  But it is not how I thought it would feel.  Can it really be the end?  Dreaming of you nonstop, your hands on my hips, your succulent full lips and eyes of two colors, cheeks with the scarred ghost of adolescent acne that you hate and I love, your voice that ranges from dusky baritones when you whisper to me in bed to high and squeaky when animated in conversation; all this I can’t seem to live without. Even the things that annoyed me I now miss.  For example, your inability to see a mirror or even window- any reflective surface – without preening.  God, you are such a peacock. How about your change in personality when your daughter wants anything at all?  Idiotic.  Just buy her a tiara and a castle and get it over with.

Keep it as is, you begged.  Like I could not want more?  Many tears were shed in those months, the dream that I can’t forget:  we study a map together.  Negotiating.  Odd detail of a protractor, the pointy part stuck down on your town, and the tiny pencil drawing a circle around it.  Perhaps I could move to one of these towns, still have you, but stay out of your inner circle. Quite ridiculous.  Ridiculously sad.

So I strayed in the end, with someone who – amazingly – showed interest in me, the rejected woman. Took this young beautiful man to my bed.  Unaware that somehow, across the distance,  you would know.  Very surprised and touched that you cried.  Weeks before our planned breakup date.  Extraneous,  just slightly out of the scheduled order.  You now feel that was why we ended, and I feel cheated by the way you’ve twisted things around.  You get to feel righteous.  Zen moment for me.

 

 

 

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A Lesson From Heartbreak

Sometimes, love swoops down on you like a beautiful bird.  And sometimes it is a vulture, eager to rip out your heart.

People say you should be open to love, to believe in it.

But love can be a liar.

Things that seem too good to be true can seem that way because they are not really true.

What someone else does to you can make you believe that you were never really worth it, that the tiny voices in your head that have always told you that no one could possibly love you were right. That somehow you are the broken person that you forgot about for a while during a whirlwind dance with the devil. And now, suddenly you remember. You feel like a fool, like an idiot.

But maybe, just maybe, what someone else does to manipulate your feelings happened to make you remember you still have feelings. Maybe there is strength and resilience within you that can take the lessons to be learned and walk away a changed person with scars that don’t destroy you, but enhance the beauty that was always there.

And maybe someone, somewhere, someday really can love you.

Or maybe not.

But you cannot control other people, only yourself. So you pick your shaky self up off the ground and remember that you can love yourself better than any other person on the planet. And if that’s all you get, then that’s all you need.

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