How Dare She Wear Cute Shoes

The Nerve of That Customer To Wear Cute Shoes

I’m in line with my husband while our four hooligans are seated at a table in the chipotle dining room wreaking noise havoc on all the innocent eaters nearby. Pointing to the shoes of the gentleman standing in front of me, I say to Scott, “I love those, I could see you wearing those.” Scott nods and then says about the shoes worn by two people ahead in line he’s been admiring, “I like those! They’re cute, right?”

I did not like this woman. 

I did not like this woman at all.

(“This woman” was wearing the “cute shoes.”)

Here were her two offenses: She was tan. She was athletic.

I, on the other hand, had surgery recently to remove an irregular mole and wear 50 spf from head to toe even on days I stay inside; I am the hue of loose leaf paper (not recycled).

Additionally, in an effort to lighten the pressures on myself this summer, I begrudgingly freed myself from one of my favorite hobbies: running. I haven’t worn a sports bra or sweated beyond what it takes to wheel the trash out in 5.5 weeks.

PS. My husband has a high regard for all people - any gender will do - who improve their bodies through fitness. 

My insecurity, as you can well see, on this chipotle evening was at an all-time high. 

All he said was that her bubbly little set of bright orange-and-pink sneakers were cute. 

I didn’t care. 

I didn’t like her.

Wait: there was a third strike; she appeared to be alone. As I glanced back at my offspring and saw them engaged in a game of makeshift bowling on the table surface with Campbell’s plastic princesses as the pins, I became further dignified in my ridiculous inner criticism of this athletic, tan, ALONE woman.

But she sorta redeemed herself, for when Scott and I were confusing the hell out of the 17 yr old tortilla dude by trying to order our 6 meals by both shouting out incoherent contributions (really, families ought to have just one chief fast food orderer), I decided to save our marriage and scoot on away to let him take over and as I passed her while slinking forward through the line, she gave me a knowing smile. It said all at once, “Why can’t it just be a tad easier?”

So, I returned to our table to break up the idiot bowling game feeling a bit sheepish about my lively and immature head dialogue about someone who is likely rather nice. 

AND THEN I see her cute little neon shoes saunter to a nearby table WITH HER DATE. 

#1) she’s, after all, not alone.

#2) her date is an autistic teenaged boy.

I proceed to observe her caringly spoon the contents of their shared burrito bowl into his mouth between bouts of his hand flapping, the two working in synch - a sign they’ve done this a million times before and will a million times more. 

And I eat. Every. Single. Word. 

I eat all the words my mind conjured up moments before in line.

And I eat all the ones this whole ragged-edged summer has brought up in me the past couple months.

The ones that paint me as a victim and the ones that are jealous of others’ simpler lives. The ones that repeat, “It’s too much. It’s just too much.” when I’m deep in an overwhelmed pit. The ones that wonder how everyone else is doing it. The ones that dismally lament, too concerned with self-involved junk to look up. The ones that shake me off my seat as the hero writer of my own story and instead leave me feeling helplessly trampled under offenders’ feet. (Cute shoe wearing feet, no less)

I got a good laugh last night. 

At myself, mainly.

Laugh at yourself, too. With kindness, if possible.

For our minds sometimes lure us unwittingly into ridiculously pathetic spaces and then feeds us good reasons to be there. 

Don’t listen. Leave it. 

And sachet back to your actual life, pale and mushy and perfect just the way it is.*

*note to reader: pale and mushy interchangeable. try filling in the blank.