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‘If loving shoes is a crime . . . I’m looking at life without parole.’ Brian Atwood.

Stories from my Sketchbook . . .

You know what I was thinking about most of yesterday?   My feet.  Seriously.  I was thinking about how much of my life I must have spent dealing with tired, aching, sore feet.  I mean—supposing it were even possible to calculate such a thing—what would that equate to in hours . . . days . . .  months . . . years?

It’s not as if I were even wearing horribly uncomfortable shoesthey were, in fact, one of my oldest and most comfy pairs—but at some point yesterday I became suddenly aware that all I was thinking about (seriously—nothing else going on in my brain at all) was how I could not wait to get in my own front door and kick my shoes off ( . . . and my bra too actually but that’s probably TMI for this particular post . . . ) 

Sadly it seems, no matter how much I might wish otherwise, gone are the days when I could don my high heels at 7.00am, run around in them all day (literally), pop into the supermarket on the way home to do a bit of grocery shopping and still feel able to stand around and gossip with one of my neighbours for half an hour at the end of the day.  These days I barely make it to lunchtime before I become increasingly aware (as my old dad used to say )my dogs are barking‘ . . .

But the thing is—I love my heels.  I really do.  I have always owned flat shoes of course (who doesn’t?) but no matter how cute they are, for me flats have always been for schleping around at home, or going to the movies (navigating all those steps in heels in the dark—I don’t think so), or walking the dogs.   They’ve never been ‘proper’ shoes.  Heels make me feel taller and slimmer and . . . dressed.  That’s it I think.  I have never considered myself properly dressed unless I’m wearing a fabulous pair of heels.  

What to do, what to do?  I know what you’re going to sayI should stop wearing my heels right now and give myself a break, right?

Well, I think we all know that’s not going to happen.  (I mean, seriously?) 

But I do think a compromise might be in order.  I think I might just be able to convince myself to buy a couple (or three or four) more pairs of extra-cute flats that might nicely complement the heels I already have.  Then I could wear my beloved heels for part of the day and surreptitiously swap them out for a similar (flatter) pair when I feel the need to give my aching tootsies a rest.  What do you reckon?

Sounds like a fine plan to me . . .

 
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Posted by on March 23, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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‘Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.’ Mark Twain.

With the wane of summer and the cooler weather on the horizon I have been prompted to start going through my wardrobe again in readiness for packing away my light summery clothes and bringing my cooler weather gear to the fore.  I like this seasonal ritual.  It reminds me of what clothes I have (far too many), what I might need (absolutely nothing, but I doubt that will stop me from buying anything new), and there is always a surprise to be found in those deep dark closet-y depths . . .

(Sometimes the surprise is good―”Wow!  I forgot I even had this and, even better, I still really like it.” . . . and sometimes the surprise is not so good―”Oh dear God, did I really wear that last year? What was I thinking?  . . . ”  This year, so far, I have found a brand new sweater (it’s still got the tags on) and rediscovered an old (but fabulous) pair of boots I haven’t worn in years . . . )  

But the thing that struck me most this time was the range of sizes that my wardrobe now encompasses.  I guess that’s not really that unusual.  My weight has done such a merry dance up and down over the years that it is hardly surprising that the clothing in my wardrobe reflects this.  But, wait a second.  Didn’t I spend days last year sorting and culling and getting rid of everything that was too small, too big (or just plain ugly)?  Wellyes I did.  So that means that all the clothes left in my wardrobe now, regardless of their size labels, all actually fit me, as I am, right this very minute.  Mmmm . . .

It has been many years since I concerned myself too much about sizing labels.  At my current size and shape I ‘should’ be (according to the size charts the fashion industry insist on foisting upon us) a standard Australian size 12. (Ha―’standard size’―who thought that one up?) but I have no qualms about ‘going up a size’ (or two) if the style or material of the garment I like demands it.  (I got over that particular vanity years ago. Besides, a sharp pair of scissors cuts offending labels off quite nicely.)  When shopping in a ‘bricks and mortar’ shop I will often try on several sizes of the same garment and if a larger than usual size is more flattering, so be it.

 (I’d much rather do that than cram myself into my ‘standard’ size and have all my ‘wobbly bits’ on full display for all the world to see.  I still have some vanity left . . . )

But I don’t only shop in bricks-and-mortar outlets.  In fact, most of my clothes shopping these days is done on-line.  And I don’t only buy Australian-made clothes either.  So this adds another complication to the shopping experience, because every country has completely different parameters for sizing their garments.  (An Australian size 12 equates to an American size 8, an English size 10, a European 38 and a Japanese size 11.)  And then there are the XXS, XS, S, M, L, XL, 1X, 2X sizings to contend with . . . and don’t even get me started on ‘One Size Fits All’.  On what planet does one *&^%ing size fit all??  (A more appropriate tag would be ‘Fits Where It Touches’ . . . )

(By the way―if I think it’s difficult getting my own clothing sizes right, I am no better with the dogs.  The last time I ordered the girls new winter jumpers, I did all the measuring up beforehand to get their right sizes but, unfortunately, I failed to take ‘girth’ into account. Mabel’s sweater was a perfect fit, but by the time I managed to shoe-horn Maudie into hers (after much wriggling and squealing (by her, not me))―she looked like a stuffed sausage. Having been in that same situation myself a number of times I took pity on her and sent the offending sweater back . . . )

So why is it such a chore to find clothes that fit? (These (First World) problems are sent to try us.)  But you would think that someone, somewhere, on a planet of around 7.5 billion souls (all needing to be clothed) would come up with a solution to this irritating conundrum.

Unless, of course, they already have and just aren’t telling us . . .

A conspiracy theorist might speculate that if clothes really do ‘make the man’ (or woman), perhaps making it impossible to find clothing that fits and flatters is all part of some nefarious, insidious world-wide conspiracy to keep the seething masses shoddily dressed (or naked) and ‘people of little influence’ . . .

The truth is out there folks.  The truth is out there . . .

 
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Posted by on March 10, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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