I was reading some ideas for posts last night and I came across the word “shoes.”
Yes, I have small moments with my patent leather black Dansko open-backed clogs.
I wear them daily with no socks. Even in the drizzle of Seattle rain or when there’s the threat of snow, I wear my clogs.
You can hear me clomping my way down the long cement floor hallways of our school.
I broke my leg (badly) in 2013, so what’s left of my limp in my right fibula, is distinct as I approach. I take them everywhere. To the grocery store, on walks around the block as my two terriers trot in front of me and my son goes flying off his bike without training wheels.
Recently I noticed they are scuffed in the toe. OH NO! You can’t very well repair these guys. They fill my high arches with stiff support. They give life to my wiggling toes and my dry heels. They are trustworthy, a fashion staple for my black/grey wardrobe.
No, they are not sexy.
I look at women in heels with a twinge of something… is it envy?
No, it’s the fear of pain.
I love my shoes.