My weekend in shoes (or how a girl like me can contradict herself so quickly)

I am a terrible decision-maker. That is, when offered multiple options, as at a restaurant with which I am not familiar, I hem and haw and generally second-guess myself in every way possible. It is like this with other more major life decisions, too.

And then, there are these moments of clarity or opacity (one can only imagine) in which decisions are made with little to no hesitation. Well, ok, maybe just a little, and mostly in the last case, economic pause.

So wasn't I just rambling on about not succumbing to crass comercialism? Yes? I failed to mention that particular caveat about cute shoes... Now wait, I know, I am alligning myself with gender stereotypes and being, as I have been accused in the past, of being a "bad feminist". Ha. Third-wave pro-sex baby. Ahem. But that is not where I was going.

So, we were a bit more lethargic in our departure, or rather, we stopped in at the University, which is like its own vortex, and eats time, like no other place I know, and so, our meeting point shifted from Berkeley directly to downtown San Francisco. We pull off and park at the exploratorium, K. meets us at the door, and while we failed to arrive in time for the tickets to the tactile dome (next time, we'll make more time) we did manage to see such interesting things as chicken embryos with hearts beating. (I. was sad for the poor baby chicks) and pendulums that transfer energy, and magnetic levitation.

So we are booted, for the second time, I believe, from the exploratorium which closes way too early, and find ourselves among the pillars of the 1900's World's Fair Colliseum - Palace of Fine Arts. The sunlight is perfect, the sky a deep azure, highlighting in a warm reflection the red, muses dancing in semi-nude poses, with concrete fabric draped about their bodies.

K. looks over and laughing says, "I have a girl request, which you are free to reject..."
I look back, I. begins to whine, and she continues, "I want you to come with me to buy a pair of shoes on Haight."
"Shoes!" the glow returns to the squirming child.
"Now why would we reject such an offer?!" and so it is agreed, away we go to the pseudo-hippie, post-revolutionary, ---gentrified in that way that only previously hard-core underculture enclaves can do, and somehow disappoint at the same time they dazzle, like South Street in Philly or Newbury Street in Boston--- part of town. John Fluevog shoes.

Let it be known for the record that I have not bought for myself or received (excluding sandals, of varying species) shoes in over two years, and for the last 6 months have been desperately scouring (ok, not really, but every time I remember I try to look) Santa Barbara for shoes that are both a) functional (meaning, I can use my orthotics, and my toes will not be crushed in the metaphoric practice of crushing female wills that is the pointy-tipped spike heel) and b) aesthetically pleasing (again, none of this shoe as an ice-pick business, it just looks bad. Sorry to all those Brazilians, French and Italians that I will be offending by stating this). To no avail. So when I walk into this store my eyes bulge in fascination. The smell of the leather permeates my nostrils. I inhale deeply. Exhale, slowly. Breath in, breath out. Ok. The queeny salesman is adorable and we manage to find two pairs of shoes that fit all previously stated characteristics. What is the damage? both on sale 99$ each. What a bahhhgain! So, before we proceed, I hedge in pseudo-guilt, and I make a phone call to shore up some patronage,
"yes mommy, this is what I want for my Valentines Day present" (Let's for a moment, ignore that I wasn't nor do I ever, expect such a present nor receive one). She agrees to enable my shoe habit. And so I proceed. K. has procured a luscious pair of high heels that are indeed stable, and sexy all at once, and I eye them enviously... So does I. who is pouting in the corner that she hasn't gotten shoes today and this is where I make a sidebar and explain to her the distinction between envy and jealousy. She admits to suffering shoe-envy.
I circle the pedestal once again, the mirrors are flattering (good sales technique- I am self-aware and still unable to defend myself against such wiles) and I say, "well, I'll try these too. Red or black? What do you think?"
"Oh darling... Red, of course. Just to try."
So I buy my first pair of non-executive, non-wedding, non-dowdy high heels, and the crimson leather criss-crosses in enticing ways across my ankle bones. And for a moment, the sting of the red economy is mitigated by the glow of the red shoes, perfect, we are in agreement for accompanying black. I won't need to re-do my wardrobe. Phew.

So the rest of the weekend was a whirlwind of fun, Peruvian cevichería, post shoe frenzy. And in the morning, another three hours northeast to Arnold, where B.'s mom so generously opened up her "cabin" to us. There were strange lawn ornaments to be ogled in the supermarket parking lot, snowshoes to be rented, and snowwomen to be generated. In an act of defiance, I curved breasts onto our balls of snow, and out of such bold formations sprung a fully formed, dickensian beauty, with pleated and flowing skirt, auburn curls and a pouting mouth, and her very own dog, for company.

I. was in heaven running in her snow shoes and getting her jeans soaked as she rolled down little hills of frozen water. A light hail fell as we were snapping shots for posterity, a perfect close for the winter wonderland scene. There were blue goudas and truffle cheeses, chevre and havarti to be shared, there was sangria with oranges picked from K.'s garden, and bra-dancing to music that spanned the last 50 years. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.... and my child whirls around the living room, shirtless too, and when B. (my hero!) lays me on the massage table and smooths the oil across my aching back, she plays Parcheesi, and gets a taste for competition. Before we return she says, "I don't want to go back, can we stay here forever?"
I wish we could, but then I think about what is missing, and I feel this warm feeling inside of me, and I want to go back, perhaps I'll always want to go back for that missing piece.