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Back to the shoes…
Now that my fingers do most of the walking, my feet are having a word. That word is “No!” My feet have gotten louder and more opinionated as I age--nothing like six-plus decades of weight-bearing to embolden sagging arches. Now, my feet stage a daily coup against cramped, harsh quarters. They don’t want to be cute or trendy they say. They demand their right to be comfortable. So, I traded in my heels, pointed-toe flats, and trendy boots for new athletic shoes. The moment I tried them on, the ecstasy was X-rated. The salesperson had to lower the blinds and close the store to other customers. I was born again! Comfort, bounce, and lift are the holy trinity of my new religion. And just when I thought it couldn’t get better, along came slip-on athletic shoes! I didn’t even know that was possible. Lives have been changed. Someone deserves the Nobel Prize in Physics for this quantum leap in footwear. Let’s face it; we’ve got enough other reasons to be tied in knots. We don’t need our shoes resisting us too. I would call my new shoes a big bang for the buck--expensive but worth the dough. When I put on my new athletic shoes, the universe expands. No longer am I a body at rest. I eagerly defy gravity by getting up from the couch. My spreading mass is exchanged for energy proving the theory of relativity and that I am much smarter when my feet don’t hurt. Who knows, there just might be a little Einstein in each of us. Get the shoes and see for yourselves.
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A prisoner of winter and freezing temperatures, I take to cleaning out the closets for physical activity. Every time I engage in this effort, I ask myself, “Why am I still holding onto this stuff?” Then I toss out .01% and congratulate myself. Despite the thousands of times I have been through this effort, I manage to convince myself that what I am discarding is “enough for now.” I tell myself that I might “need” the remaining stuff “someday.” The fact that I am 68 years old is leaving me with less and less “somedays,” but I ignore the math, and then I congratulate myself on being an optimist, a personality trait for which no one who knows me ever gives me enough credit. In my wardrobe closet there is a row of shoes that I haven’t worn in years. I need a carbon dating system to recall the years of purchase. There are some jeans in there that I purchased in 2010 and haven’t worn much since. For some reason, I keep these items “just in case.” In case of what I wonder as I stare them down for the millionth time. Maybe in case the daily news isn’t torture enough. Working people seem to love their blue jeans. They can’t wait for a jeans day at work. Jeans symbolize down time, me time, free time. Somehow wearing jeans to work can make work seem like, well, not work, like folks chose to come in and hang out on their own time. A Friday jeans day and you’ve got a long weekend. Not me. I’ve never had that kind of relationship with jeans. Somehow they never seem to feel quite right despite so many style options. And when I say “quite right,” I mean wearable. And does anyone just slip into a pair of jeans anymore? Seems more like a wrestling match thanks to both style and spandex. I guess my mother’s critique of clothes worn too tight stuck with me: “Those clothes look painted on” or “they look like a stuffed sausage in that outfit.” Thankfully, my mother did not live to see jeggings. It would have killed her or caused her to go blind. Allegedly, jeans “go with everything.” You can pair them with high heels or strappy sandals, blazers and silk blouses, expensive jewelry. Maybe. If you are the size of a Barbie doll. But my Barbie never wore jeans, and I always loved her. And my other idol, Nancy Drew was never described as wearing jeans. Instead, she slipped into a speedy roadster for a life of adventure. Take that Levi! Perhaps I just didn’t get the gene for jeans. I didn’t get the gene for high fashion either. Karl Lagerfeld, the famous fashion icon, said “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life, so you bought some sweatpants.” It hurts to admit it, but yes, that’s me. I guess I just gave up too soon—sometime in childhood I must have thought haute couture was the French pastry responsible for making jeans too tight. If I am ever convicted of a crime, I won’t need prison. Put me in a pair of jeans and call it solitary confinement. I won’t be able to move, eat, or breathe. In addition, I will have the mental torture of thinking of nothing more than how miserable I am. The authorities won’t have to worry about me causing a prison brawl. All I will be able to do is roll with the punches. Maybe the Geneva Convention prohibits prisoners from wearing jeans and that’s why they get the comfy orange jumpsuits. The only thing I can say in favor of jeans is that the holes, shredded fabric, and faded spots do hide a lot of laundry failures and mistakes, but that’s not me either. I am a pro at laundry. It has been my life’s work. Thank you very much. And yet, here I am, standing in the closet holding onto the jeans just in case “someday” I am an undefeated, tall, thin, high-fashion model. It could happen… I save the shoes for another day. You have been a refuge for the poor, a refuge for the needy in his distress, a shelter from the storm and a shade from the heat. For the breath of the ruthless is like a storm driving against a wall and like the heat of the desert. Isaiah 24:4 Trying to keep up with Trump’s well-practiced strategy of flooding the zone is exhausting. Overnight, he upended 250 years of government of the people, by the people, and for the people. Less than a month into his term, the flood waters are so deep, we are in need of an ark. I am not sure how the simple word “groceries” turned into all of this chaos. Maybe Trump is afraid that if he lowers the price of eggs people will begin throwing bird-flu-infected ova at him. Hate to tell you, #47, but you already have egg on your face—critical Day One promises have been broken: groceries are more expensive. There is still a war in Ukraine. In one of Trump’s latest moves, he fired the Chairman of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and named himself Chairman despite the fact that he’s never seen a performance there. I guess #47 is planning a revival of Jesus Christ Superstar and wants to ensure he gets the title role surrounded by The 12 Village People. I am willing to give the guy a break; he probably just wants to show off his dance moves and his Jesus complex. In another puzzling move, even as he shuttered government offices and dismantled USAID, #47 established an Office for Faith. He wants to Make America Christian Again. He even appointed a woman to head this new office. No D-E-I there, just a gospel of P-R-O-S-P-E-R-I-T-Y. That, along with his new merit system L-O-Y-A-L-T-Y, form the foundation of his religion. Even the fundamentalist Christians of Trump’s base responded with fury. They have called the appointee a heretic, and a W-O-M-A-N. In their view, God does not want women as preachers or church leaders. Why, #47 has even taken it upon himself to speak up for my homies, the Catholics, saying that Democrats have abandoned us. I had no idea... Finding this all very confusing, I turned to the Catholic reference manual to see how all of this lines up with the actual word of God. I began searching my Bible for relevant passages that could explain #47’s character, words, and behavior in light of his pronouncements about faith and Christianity. I even scoured the internet and sought the help of ChatGPT, but there was nothing to explain the paradox. Later, during a night of restless sleep, it came to me in a dream. I pictured a day in June 2020 when #47 was still #45 and people had taken to the streets to protest the murder of George Floyd. I saw a man in a suit standing in front of St. John’s Church in Washington, D. C. My foggy brain zeroed in—Yes! That was him! #45 was holding a Bible. Upside down. The revelation jarred me from my sleep and I jumped out of bed. Grabbing the family Bible from the shelf, I turned to the Ten Commandments and began reading: Commandment 1: You shall have no other gods before me. Turning the heavy book upside down, I could see #47’s interpretation. There were no other gods before him. How about Commandment 4: Keep holy the Sabbath? Upside down it could be interpreted as “Play a few holes on Sunday.” I was getting somewhere, a much deeper understanding, but then... Commandment 6: You shall not murder. I am still struggling with this one. No matter how I turned the Bible, even standing on my head, I just couldn’t see how that might read: “Hang Mike Pence.” On to Commandment 7: You shall not commit adultery. Giving #47 the benefit of the doubt, and going with the possibility that he has read more of the Bible, I found at least 30 passages about the storms of life. It’s quite possible, in an upside down world, that he summarized and came to the conclusion that he had permission to do Stormy Daniels. Down to Commandment 8: Thou shall not steal. From the reporting of staff during #47’s first administration, #47 is not much of a reader. He prefers to keep things short and to scan for the details. I can see how, at a quick glance, Commandment 8 might seem like an order to “Stop the Steal.” And finally, how about Commandment 10: Thou shalt not covet your neighbor’s house or anything that is your neighbors?” Again, in all fairness, it didn’t specifically say Canada, Mexico, or Panama. And Greenland isn’t technically a “neighbor.” Maybe #47 isn’t the fascist we fear. Maybe he just needs some glasses and some Ritalin…and maybe a heart transplant. I’m no priest or preacher, but I read my Bible right side up. And I am sure of two things that will get us through this storm: God’s greatest commandment recorded in John 13: As I have loved you, so you must love one another. And it was Jesus who spoke of fear even more times than he spoke of love. I keep this passage from Matthew 17:7 on a poster in my bedroom where I see it when I open my eyes each morning: Arise, and do not be afraid. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
June 2025
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