Thank You Linda G. Hill for getting my writer blood flowing!
Shoes say a lot. The other day I took an adorable picture of my daughter wearing my high tops. I posted it on Instagram with the caption: “My Kinda Girl. She choses High Tops over High Heels.”
It got me thinking. What kinda girl am I? I love to wear my high tops with ripped jeans. That’s my uniform these days. I hate heels with a passion. They are beautiful, but my feet hurt when I wear them. I also walk like an injured giraffe and that kind of defeats the purpose of looking feminine. I feel sexier in sneakers. I am also less of an insurance claim.
I realize that I am never gonna fit in with the graceful giraffes. Between my love of exercise and my insulin pump, I think I freak people out. I also have a very serious look on my face all the time. Not exactly RBF but a look that says I am all business, all the time. That’s pretty funny because I still can’t handle potty humor without cracking up. If I were wearing heels, my uncontrolled, shaking laughter would cause me to fall over. Sad, but true. If I had my high tops on, I could run away and safely laugh in a corner somewhere.
My new mantra is “I really don’t care.” I spent too much time apologizing and hiding. You don’t like me? “I really don’t care.” Just please do not insult my shoes. My shoes are my armor. I might just kick you. Nah. I will probably just walk away from negative-crazy. My daughter thinks my shoes and me are cool. That’s really all I care about: my cool kid who wears my shoes.