twinkle toes

I've never been into fashion, and it comes as absolutely no surprise to me that I chose a career in which, essentially, I wear a glorified prison uniform (don't those orange prison suits look an awful lot like scrubs?) that doesn't require ironing and clog-type shoes that would make Imelda Marcos run screaming for the nearest Nine West, STAT.

I'm also not really into clothes. In fact, my poor mother is still buying me clothing, because I'm so disinterested in shopping for myself that I must come home for my perennial visits looking like a regular street urchin.

I mean, I think the last time I bought clothes for myself was in January, when I realized I couldn't go to a dinner at someone's home wearing my signature snoopy-teeshirt and running shorts.

Any way, I have to make note of one other thing: I'm not a Shoe Girl, either, and I fucking absolutely refuse to stuff my feet into uncomfortable shoes for the sake of fashion. I'm either in my battered danksos, or else I'm in my chunky-heeled mary-janes, or else my feet are wearing nothing.

Today, I bought a pair of crocs brand ballet-slipper mary janes. I mean, chunky-heeled leather mary janes are all well and good, but I needed a nice summer shoe, with aeration. These shoes are quite possibly the ugliest pair of ballet-slipper shoes on the planet, but I care not. They are and comfortable and orthotic.

And, they will drive my poor mother insane if she finds out I bought them, because she hates my smurf-colored crocs already (Sample conversation: Mom says, "They'll ruin your feet!" Jamie says, "No, mom, running around for 12 hour nursing shifts will ruin my feet. And my back, as an added bonus!")

Every time I wear the smurf-blue crocs, she's always broadly hinting about how my outfit would look cuter with a different pair of shoes, even though "my outfit" is just as ugly and sexless as the shoes. Sometimes, she even goes as far as bringing me a pair of her own shoes to wear. (We wear the same size of shoe, except I have a wider foot. This is another Mom Thing: I'm always hearing about the mysterious disaster of splayed feet, and how When She Was Young, She Used to Run In High Heels A Mile To the Bus Stop. Meanwhile, I'm looking politely interested and filially respectful while thinking, "What is this, ancient China?! Do you want me to bind my feet, or something?")

Like, I'm telling all you Concerned Mothers Out There With Your Well Meaning Theories About Your Daughters' Choice of Footwear and How It Directly Influences Their Chances of Marrying a Nice Jewish Doctor (or, in my case, admission to an Ivy League):

You can just chill out, okay?

Because when I'm eighty five years old, ain't nobody gonna be looking at my feet and saying, "Oh! You should have worn binding shoes! Look at your feet now. They're all ugly and old looking." I'll be partially blind by then, too, so I won't be able to see how fugly my feet are at eighty five, any way.

And, I'll bet at that advanced age, I'll care more about watching my stories on the Space Age Internet (because what was watching t.v. like, grandma?) and eating my diabetic ice cream than I'll care what my fucking feet look like.