How I Became THAT Girl

I am not a pink and pretty, pampered and pedicured, foo-foo girl. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It just seems out of my reach. Except for the pink part. I make pink look fierce.

I'm just not that girl.

Nor am I a fix-a-flat, hawk-n-spit, tomboy-girl. I have enough trouble putting my old, hand-crank pencil sharpener back together, and I always forget to spit with the wind, not agin' it.

I'm not that girl, either.

That said, I'm no stranger to hiking in the woods, playing in the mud, or sweating (if need be). I would just prefer to be wearing a color-coordinated outfit and appropriate footwear while doing it.

So why was I hiking along the muddy banks of the Minnehaha Creek in downtown Minneapolis, wearing fitted, white capris, a swingy, trapeze tank top, and strappy, wedge heels?

I'm not that girl.

What can I say? Assumptions were made. Lessons were learned.

It all started with the prospect of a Girl's Weekend Out. It all started with the promise of shopping, and a fancy dinner, and a Very Special Birthday celebration for a Very Special Friend.

Let me point out that there usually is no difference between my “goin' to the mall” outfit and my “goin' to the woods” outfit -- or my “settin' on the couch” outfit, for that matter. My go-to, “goin' to” outfit usually consists of jeans or jean shorts, a t-shirt, and running shoes. The stores where I usually shop end with “-Mart.” My idea of fine dining is anything I don't order from my car.

Still, we were headin' to the Big City. We were headin' to The Big Mall, yes, that one, America. And we were helping a friend celebrate a Big Birthday (the latest to join the “Who's Counting” club). I didn't want to look like I just fell off the turnip truck.

My travelin' partner-in-crime always looks effortlessly put together. And the birthday girl always looks perky and classy. I always look like I just fell off the turnip truck.

But this was a Girl's Weekend. A Girl's Weekend with four women traveling in one car with one small hatchback for luggage and shopping bags. I did NOT want to be that girl. The one with a pile of luggage and different shoes for each outfit. So I packed light. Extremely light. As in one-outfit-per day light. I brought just two pairs of shoes, chosen for fashion, not function.

Prior to this excursion, during this month alone, I have hiked muddy trails through overgrown woods, explored caves, waded through creeks, zoomed down a mountain (ok, a hill) on an alpine slide, struggled to keep up with some serious Fitbit fanatics, and participated in a mini-triathalon. There is a better than average chance that I have, at one time or another, made fun of women (and men) wearing inappropriate footwear or clothing during these activities. (Seriously, hiking in dollar store flip flops?)

And yet there I was, one martini glass shy of looking like an extra in Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie, picking my way around tree roots, trying not to slide down the steep declines and shuffling across the sandy sandbar.

I had become that girl.

My mantra became “Don't slip, don't sweat, don't swear out loud.” Because the only thing worse than being that girl, is being that whiny girl.

The good news is no ankles were turned, no shoes were ruined, no bodies needed to be hidden. No one wound up wearing an orange jumpsuit.

Although if I do wind up in an orange jumpsuit some day, I have the perfect pair of strappy wedges to wear with it.

Nerd Shoes

I am in love.

With a pair of shoes.

Slip ons, to be precise.

They literally... wait for it... slip on. My feet. Without tying.

I had a friend say “Oh yeah, I have a pair like that. I hardly ever have to tie them.”

I had to get all “Oh, No-O” on his feet. (Imagine this accompanied by a horrified expression, vigorous head shake and full-on finger wag.) “You don't understand. I don't have to tie these...EH-VER. ”

Because they... you guessed it... slip on!

I just hold my foot over the... ummm... open part where you put your foot... and VIOLA! They slip on!

It's like freakin' magic.

I don't have to bend over and wiggle the shoe onto my foot. I don't have to touch them at all with my hands. I don't even have to think about it. BAM!

Nooooo touchy!

Nooooo bendy!

Just slippy.

On-y.

There are no laces! None! Nada! Whatsoever!

No tying! Never! Nunca! Whensoever!

No annoying Velcro-rippy sounds and icky balls of fuzz stuck to the Velcro, either.

In a word: Genius.

In two words: Effing Genius.

Why has it taken me almost fifty... I mean almost thirty... years to find out about these miracles of modern footwear?

I know what you're thinking and NO. These are not sandals.

These are NOT dollar store flip-flops, schlip-schlap-schlip-schlapping down the hallway while they eat away at that tender skin between the little piggie who is going to market and the little piggie who is staying at home.

These are not slides which are suprisingly comfortable, yet leave all your piggies exposed to the cruel weather elements and whatever you might drop on them. (Trust me.)

These aren't some high-heeled, toe-crushing, Sex-Kitten, F***-Me, Hooker-Pumps that leave me teetering precariously down the sidewalk. (Because let's face it, I can barely walk in flats without tripping over empty space. Sad but true.)

These are not slippers. They are SLIPPERS ON STEROIDS. These are slippers that I can wear ANY. FREAKIN'. WHERE. I. WANT.

Because they are slip-ons. Not slipp-ers.

These are honest-to-God, full-coverage, fat-soled, hipster-souled, tennis shoes. Ish. With attitude.

Because these bad boys are leopard print. 

They aren't particularly comfortable for extended wear (ie: farther than from the house to the car or for more than five minutes). But they were on sale. So... there's that.

Did I mention the leopard print? Jealous much? 

Ohhhh, I remember how we mocked that boy in high school. You know, the one who wore the slip-on, plain, black, elasticized,  tenny runners.

Dude. Dude.

I am so sorry.

You were ahead of your time.

And I believe you are now an astrophysicst, (or a geneticist, or something science-y-ist). So. You know. No hard feelings, right? No "accidentally" blowing me up or sending the IRS my way, right? (Not that I Google-stalked you or anything. Who's the slip-on wearing, techno-nerd now ? Huh? HUH? Bazinga!)

And that's the problem. Back in the day, slip-on shoes were soooo... for lack of a better word, nerdy.

Now I know the truth: They are miraculous, labor saving devices that go on your feet!

Because I'm all like, “I don't have time to tie my shoes before heading out to the gym since I just finished makin' dinner and the garlic bread has two more minutes don'tletitburnorI'llkillyou, but I am throwing one more freakin' load of laundry in the washer before I go and – oops – scoopin' the litter box because – GoodGod – what has the cat been eatin' and how the hellcanIbelateagainforcraps'sake?”

I mean, I'm all like “I am pinpointing the position of that incoming asteroid which will seal earth's doom while simultaniously curing cancer, decoding Beethoven's Fifth and calculating Pi to its not not-so irrational (yeah, you heard me) final (that's right, final) number. Aaaand figuring out who gives a rat's ass why anyone cares which one is Kourtney Kardashian.

Because I am THAT cool.

In my nerd shoes.

If the Shoe Fits

Some people just don't like to shop. Maybe it's the pushy crowds, the clueless clerks, or the idiots in the parking lots. Me, I've never noticed those things. I'm all sweetness and light when I shop, naturally. But there is one thing eclipses my sunshine: shoe shopping.

I have no problem admitting my age -- 39. Alright, 39 and a half. I can admit that my "greylights" are courtesy of Mother Nature and not L'Oreal. But for most of my 4... I mean 38 and a half years, I've been reluctant to tell anyone just how big (size-enhanced) my feet are.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I have feet. I like my feet. They work just fine. They allow me to stand upright and provide balance in a strong wind. They add valuable inches of height when I stand tippie-toes. But when I go shoe shopping, they just get in the way.

There's nothing wrong with my feet. It's those arbitrary numbers they assign to shoe sizes that bother me.

It is nearly impossible to find shoes in my size. After years of contemplation, I have come up with three possible reasons: 1. Manufacturers only make five pair of shoes in this size for distribution throughout the entire country. 2. Someone (with a really big closet) is hoarding all the shoes in my size. 3. Drag Queens beat me to them. It doesn't really make me feel better to think that I could be wearing the same shoe as Patrick Swayze did in "To Wong Fu."

Several young girls the Little Princess' age already wear size nine. And they're not done growing yet! I am torn. There's a part of me that feels sorry for them, knowing they are facing a future of meager shoe pickin's. But mostly I'm just worried that they will mean added competition for a limited number of generous-sized shoes. I have seniority! I deserve the cute shoes!

Online shoe shopping is just not the same. All too often I've drooled over a cute pair of shoes on display at a store, only to puke when I look down and see them on my feet. I want them off my feet and out of my life NOW! Not after I've repackaged and hauled them to the post office. I'm all about the instant gratification.

One of my (many) ideas for building my hometown's business and tourism base is to open a shoe store. Not just any shoe store, but a SHOE store, catering to size-enhanced feet. Not just any shoe store, but a shoe STORE! Offering a unique shopping experience for a marginalized demographic who, far too often, wind up impaled on the pointy end of a stiletto heel when it comes to cute shoe choices.

The front room of my store would be modest, but cozy. A wide array of shoes styles would be attractively displayed -- no boxes up front! The shoe store equivalent of a maitre d' would welcome customers, politely answer questions and show them around. He would also be responsible for ascertaining the actual shoe size of the customer.

This is vital, because only shoppers with size 10 -- maybe nine -- or larger feet would be allowed to advance through the velvet curtain, past the security system/Brannock Device, to the back room. The inner sanctum, as it were. All you elfin-footed girls would have to sit out front on semi-comfortable chairs to wait for your full-footed friends.

The back room would be a shoe shoppin' Shangri La! Foot-fortunate females would be treated to champaign fountains, trays of gourmet chocolates and plush couches -- complimentary foot rubs optional. The sales associates would all be hotty-hot-hotties dressed in crisp, white shirts and dark, pin-stripped suits with skinny ties (Why yes, I have been watching "White Collar" on USA). All customers would be addressed as Miss, not Ma'm, and breath mints would be used at all times.

And the shoes! Oh yes, the shoes would be awesome! Not a pixie-sized pair to be found! Top designers would create styles especially for the grander sizes. We'd put an end to those shoes that look cute in itsy-bitsy sizes, but in the upper size range look more like clown shoes. We would turn the current trend of shoe size discrimination on its head by not even manufacturing these adorable shoes in sizes smaller than a 10-- maybe a nine.

Yes, I am a little bitter about not being able to find shoes in my size. And no, I'm not a big enough person to "just let it go." That's why I'm considering adding a closed-circuit tv that would allow the miniature-footed to see what they were missing out on while they sit on semi-comfortable chairs, drinking tap water and munching on generic, candy-coated chocolate drops.

Because in this case, size does matter.