Somewhere in my family tree, on my dad’s side of the family, there was a guy named Steven. Or Stephen.
Maybe a first name. Maybe a last name.
There may have been lots of them. Like Stephens.
Sadly, there really isn’t anyone left to ask, though Gramma Elsie would have been the expert.
What I do know is that he/they had unusual feet.
“Steven’s/Stephen’s feet and ankles”, to be exact.
I could tell from an early age that possessing the infamous feet and ankles was not a particularly positive family trait.
Flat feet, apparently. And wobbly, kind of crooked ankles.
I think I won the prize.
Once, I told one of my nursing instructors, way back in the days of white shoe polish, that I was becoming a nurse because I could wear comfortable shoes.
It wasn’t long afterwards that I decided I had a definite preference for no shoes at all.
I never wear shoes in the house, despite the frequent bruises on the tops of my feet when the dogs stand on me.
I didn’t wear shoes in my office when I had one.
I got married in a boring pair of ivory colored pumps with 3/4 inch heels and took them off during the reception, which might have been a better look if I’d also given up panty hose at that point.
I’m just really not a shoe kind of person.
Except for the ones that call to me! (A tendency I may also have inherited from my dad!)
Today, a new pair called to me. Or, rather, a new pair followed me home.
You see, today, I scheduled my second post-graduation Intentional Creativity workshop!
Neither of them will be at my house, where I can get away with bare feet.
We’re talking hours of standing on concrete floors in something that is, first, comfortable. And second, something that will tolerate inevitable paint splatters.
(Shiloh, if you’re listening, please forgive me. My feet are just not the hot pink sequined cowgirl boot type!)
I had a plan.
Plain, neutral black running shoes of the same brand I already love. I figured the paint would just enhance them.
Of course, my favorite Big Peach store didn’t have them in black and my feet, apparently, don’t like the new and “improved” ones nearly as well as last year’s way better ones.
The young woman helping me was perplexed. I am clearly not a runner so why, I could hear her thinking, was I so picky about shoes.
Well, it’s not really me who’s picky. It’s my feet. And we made a deal, years ago, that my feet get to choose shoes.
You, however, are a clever reader, and we’ve talked about shoes before. And I do, indeed, have new shoes.
Not at all plain. Also not likely to care about a paint splatter or two. Definitely feet-approved.
And quite likely to be granddaughter approved!
Plus, they go with my red thread bracelets. And, probably, my funky socks. Which is just as well, because it’s cold!
I have many things to be thankful for in this moment, including you!
And a suitcase to pack.
Wednesday, a special report from Grammy-land!