6.08.05
Claire needed new shoes. Her feet were suddenly, overnight, bigger . . . size eight. How did this happen? When?
So we went to Target (a.k.a. The Red Spot Boutique, as one of our Australian friends calls it), and we came home with one cute pair of tennis shoes with little pink flowers on them, and two pairs of sandals (one brown, an exact size 8 replica of the size 7s we threw out), and one blue with a big daisy on top (frivilous, but mommy and Claire both said "oooooh" when we saw them).
Then Claire spent the afternoon putting them all on and taking them all off. In matched and mismatched pairs, on the wrong feet sometimes, and on the right feet sometimes. (50-50 chance, right?)
My feet grew an entire size during my pregnancy with Claire. So did my sister's, who was pregnant the same time I was, with Grace. And it just so happened my feet grew into her shoe size. So I inherited her shoes. (She is my sister. We have shared deodorant. She had cool shoes, and I wanted them. I'm not fussy.) Here are some of the sandals I got.
I need to give myself a pedicure, but am always lazy about it. And I can't bring myself to pay someone to do it. I have, before, gone for pedicures. Everyone does it here in southern California. There is an expectation that women will go get their nails done by someone. But I spend the entire time feeling horrible. I chatter nervously and they want me to shut up, probably, and it's all because I know it is a wretched job. Such a wretched job. So I always have dowdy looking feet, for southern California. You could eat off people's feet here, they keep them so pristine. I have always thought of my feet as utilitarian tools rather than pieces of art. But here, feet are art. I don't quite fit in, with my scruffy feet.
I have to wonder if it matters.
