Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Sandals

It's getting hot out there, the summer solstice is nigh upon us, whatever the hell that means, I don't know, but my socks know and have already started creeping to the back of my drawer, where they are constructing their horrid, tangled nest.  I can hear them back there, hissing, and biting holes in one another.

It's sandal time. Do the sandal dance. Just kidding.  There is no sandal dance.

But it is time to go sandal shopping because the sandals I bought just last year appear to have aged and died in my closet over the winter.  What was once sleek and supple is now a dried hunk of old leather.  Don't look at me. I didn't do it.  They were fine the last time I wore them.  Then October came, it got a little nippy, and I pressed my socks back into service. The sandals went into the closet.  And now, here I am at the start of summer and needing a new pair.

Oh,  I know what you are thinking.  "What, you only have one pair of sandals, what are you some kind of freaky prairie woman minimalist?".  No.  I'm not.  If I was, I'd be sewing my own sandals out of gopher skin, now, wouldn't I?

I'm a bad shopper, is what I am.  I will actually buy four pairs of sandals.  This is how it will go down:

I'll be looking for a simple, casual pair of leather gladiator sandals without a lot of embellishment, but with some style, some structure, some je ne sais quois.  I won't find them.  Anywhere.  And I need something, don't I?  So I'll buy something.  And at the time, it will seem like a wise purchase.  

The first pair of sandals I buy will be so pretty. They'll be cute and trendy and on sale.  They will probably have a wedge heel and might be sporting some faux turquoise.   I'll imagine wearing them with capris and t-shirt dresses, or worn jeans and a white button down. To a cook out, maybe, or a summer music festival because, even though I haven't been to a music festival in, oh, twenty-five years, I can now picture myself dancing to the music of some Grateful Dead tribute band, shaking my groove thing, my moneymaker, if you will, even though it's never made me a dime, to my knowledge, in my turquoise adorned sandals. The vision is so strong, I make the purchase and drive home in a haze of summery anticipation.  After two months in my closet, during which time they will be tried on with numerous outfits, including the aforementioned capris and t-shirt dresses, I'll realize that wedge heels don't suit me and neither do capris and t-shirt dresses, and oh my God, fake turquoise?  Really?  

The second pair will be flat heeled and classic, but in a trendy color. Like orange, say. The problem will occur when I realize they clash with 98% of my wardrobe.  

The third pair will be a pair of flip flops from Wal-mart. They will have a slight lift in the heel area.  Just enough. I will wear them everywhere and sometime during the first week of August, one of the thongs will rip out, leaving me bereft and sandaless.  

So I'll go shopping again, halfheartedly picking through the sale racks, looking for something I can put on my feet that will downplay my cankles and bunions, while highlighting my delicate arches and narrow foot. Suddenly, a golden light will shine down from the ceiling of the Macy's shoe department and onto the very pair of sandals I've coveted all summer long.  Angels will sing.  I'll fight off three determined ladies slashing at me with their 50% off coupons (if you purchase with your Macy's credit card and aren't buying anything practical or desirable), but I'll emerge victorious, shoes in hand, with nary a paper cut, finally ready to take on summer.

I'll wear those sandals every day and every night and they will be perfect.  But soon the weather will cool, my toes will beg my socks to come out from the back of the drawer, and I'll reluctantly commend my most favorite pair of sandals ever to the recesses of my closet for a peaceful winter slumber.

"At least", I think, "I can still wear them next year."

Yeah, and maybe when I pull the socks out from the back of my drawer, they won't all have holes, either.

Peace out, Chicksters  

  

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Socks. They Resent You

If you live in a less temperate climate, like New England, you may have recently noticed that the nights are getting chilly.  It's time to go through your closets, pull out those sweaters, and possibly shop for a new pair of boots.  Good luck with that.

My favorite thing to do, when I return home on a chilly fall night, is to pull on a pair of socks.  For me, there is nothing like their soft, cottony warmth after a long day in hosiery.  I only wish my socks returned my ardor.

A couple weeks ago, I retired my flip flops and called my socks back from their summer vacation.  The problem with socks is that they never want to come back from summer vacation. I think many teachers must feel the same way at the end of the summer; however, they can usually be relied upon to put down their summer reading, store away their beach chairs, and spruce up their classrooms. Then again, teachers collect a pay check.  The only thing socks collect is dead skin cells.  Perhaps this explains their saturnine personas and selective hearing.  While socks have no problem hearing the phrase "Summer Vacation", they do not seem to recognize the phrase "Summer's Over".

My socks wouldn't emerge from my drawer of their own volition.  I had to hunt them down and pull them, one by one, from the tangled nest they had constructed in the dark recesses of my bureau.

I lined them up and addressed them like the little foot soldiers they are. 

Well looky what we got all up in here.  A bunch of  soft, girly socks!  Did you have a nice summer off, socks?  Did you enjoy lounging in my drawers?  Did you get all rested up?  I hope so, cause it is fall now, bitches, and Momma's home.  This year is going to be a little different, you hear me?  I am not buying new socks every other week just because 7 of you decide to hitch hike to Orlando in the neighbor's suitcase.  You are not even close to retirement age, and Florida doesn't need the burden of unnecessary footwear.  They have enough problems with pythons. In addition, I expect to find you available and hole-free whenever you are on call.  And you are always on call.  There will be no workers comp for injured socks this year.  I'm wearing you anyway, but first I will stick needles in you, over and over again, and infiltrate your holiness with cotton reinforcements.  And you clever socks?  The ones who like to divide and conquer?  Listen closely: I will destroy you.  I will hunt you down and  turn you into sock puppets.  I will clean my bathroom with you.  This ain't no democracy, socks.  This is my house and you serve at my pleasure. Do we understand each other?  

Socks are okay, but you have to let them know who's boss; otherwise, it is two against one all day long.

Of course, socks hate this imbalance of power.  You can't really blame them.  In their minds, you are one mouthy head,  obviously inferior to a pair, and they can't help but wonder how they ended up on the bottom of this equation, stuck between your feet and a hard place.  They are constantly trying to unionize or plan a mutiny. Luckily for us, they are divided among themselves and find it difficult to agree on a cohesive plan of action.  They will try all kinds of things to escape indentured service, including shrinking to barbie doll size, escaping through dryer vents, and committing harikari on that nail head sticking out of the floor in your hallway....

I feel sad for socks sometimes, but if it comes  down to socks or my cold  feet, my cold feet are going to win every time.  Succumb socks.  Or pay the price of betrayal.

Chicken out

Ha.  Take that socks!  By the way, does this remind anyone of Hyperbole and a Half?