(I wrote this almost a month ago and forgot to post it. So sue me.)
And while we're on the subject of shoes, I'd like to mention my day, of which shoes played a major part.
Today I went to one of those radio station-sponsored multi-band music festivals featuring one-hit-wonders and the pre-teens who love them. I wouldn't have gone at all except that a work associate had free tickets.
In the old days (meaning ten years ago, when I was in high school), I often went to things like this. I'm not sure how much I liked them -- I always seem to remember being bored and tired. But I always dressed appropriately: sensible shoes, warm layers, make-up that wouldn't run. And I always managed to feel invisible. There were always the girls with more punk rock T-shirts, or the ones with tube tops and cute jeans. There was always someone two rows ahead of me who seemed to be living my summer concert romance fantasy, while I was stuck in my comfy baggy T-shirt and frizzy curly hair.
So today I decided I would move beyond that awkward teenager. Knowing that we'd have VIP seats, and that our chances of moving from them was pretty small, I decided to choose fashion over function. I wore my black round-toe frilly heels from Shooz,
my favorite pair of non-galoshes shoes, and probably the cutest damn high heels I have ever had in my possession.
I realized the mistake within minutes of arriving at the Santa Barbara bowl. As I'd predicted, the shoes weren't exactly practical for hiking up the ashpalt hill to the ampitheater. But as I hadn't predicted, their inherent cuteness didn't make up for the
things I don't tend to like about such shows: the hours that drag on, the way so many bands (even good ones) seems to sound the same after that much time, the way I end up comparing myself to cute girls half my size (as I always did) and half my age (a new perk of being over 25), and the self-loathing I feel when I realize how truly not punk rock I actually am for thinking these things instead of jumping head first into the mosh pit (or beer garden).
So what that meant was I was tired, bored, engaging in some good old-fashioned self-esteem bashing, AND my feet hurt. A lot. All day.
The first time I showed my fashionista sister these shoes, she warned me they'd hurt and I'd have to bear it. The first time I wore them, I sent her a text message saying she was right. She wrote back, half jokingly:
Beauty is pain, my friend. Suck it up. Keep an eye on the prize!
I thought of this as I left the concert early, toddling down the hill towards the parking lot. And I thought of it as I took the damn shoes off and carried them as I walked, barefoot, the rest of the way home. Funny thing is, I was still happy to have them in my hands. The only thing better would have been to be wearing a T-shirt that said "Look at my cute shoes!"
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