You see this photo? They’re my “walking shoes”.
When did I get to that age where flip flops hurt my feet? Probably around 40 but I was in denial of the following:
I have arthritis in my feet. Yup. Arthritis. Not an affliction just for your embarrassing mother wearing her walking shoes (and cute little white socks, wearing her skort, shaming you in the mall).
But for me too, super uber sexy Night-Lurker cum Hausfrau who still pictures herself as a twenty-something black-clad size 4 tootling along, speakeasy to speakeasy in Chinatown, wearing these bad babies.
This summer, the pain was so bad I finally had to put aside all my cute flip flops and don the Mom Shoes. Ugh. And I feel like a Preppy Era Old Fartess in my capris and festive tank tops (short-sleeve blouse in contrasting colour casually thrown o’ertop) balancing nicely with clunky-but-semi-comfy shoes, looking like I’m either a dotty old bag or some uptight douche who can’t let go and just enjoy summer.
And my lovely pedi (gold sparkly toes this week, thank you very much)? Never to be seen by any other than the kids (wasted on them), cats (they like the sparkle) and hubby (don’t ask).
Between the shoes and my never-losing baby weight (he’s 3), I feel I’ve finally trundled into Advanced Middle Age. Not that advanced middle age is so very old, but the day you decide to wear walking shoes rather than flippies, in the words of Cab Calloway (shit, maybe I am old) “Jack, you dead!”
My fears that I would look like a mid-stream Boomer have now been realized.
But at least I still have my Hello Kitty mug! Surely that shaves a few years?