A Step Forward

One thing I can say about aging. I’ve definitely become more stable. At least in the category of high winds.

          My mother, at 5’4” or so, had lovely average 7 ½ feet that matched her size.

          My father’s feet also matched his height of 6’3” and we knew our cats appreciated this, since we often found one sleeping in one of his loafers.

          I’m a couple inches taller than Mama and inherited her love of cooking and hazel green eyes, but from the ankle down I’m Daddy. Not quite Emmett Kelly material, but I’ve always had biggish feet.

          I remember my angst for an entire year in high school when my stepmother bought me Italian loafers instead of the peer-pressure mandatory Bass Weejun penny loafers. Do you have any idea how l-o-n-g Italian loafers make you feet look?

          After a couple of decades upright and two kids, my feet reached what I thought would be their final destination near the end of the ladies’ shoe sizes.

Beyond this point half sizes for women don’t exist in conventional stores, inconvenient since that’s the size I really should be wearing.

          I suppose I shouldn’t complain too loudly since when I shop with my golfing friend she has no better luck than I do. We’re at polar opposites of the shoe section. She wears a 4 ½ and usually has to go to the kids’ department.

          Two weeks ago I came back from a round of golf with aching feet and swore, No More!

          At a local department store (after being so desperate that I even checked out the men’s section of sneakers) I caved and bought the very highest size to be found in women’s shoes without a specialty store.

          The next game of golf was bliss. I also played really well (for me) and I had first attributed my success to lessons the week before, but now I wonder if it was my shoes, not my swing, that needed fixing.