Yes, I asked that question of myself while looking at… shoes. Granted, it was always a consideration when I would shop for shoes, but never the number one priority. Back in the day, the way a patent pump molded the foot, the inches a stiletto added, the number of outfits this wedge would go with, and how many people the damned things would make jealous were of much more importance than ‘are they comfortable’. Hell, if they were awesome shoes but my size was sold out, I would even buy them in almost the right size, because what’s a little pain if you are smoking hot!
I had one of those very fleeting moments of insanity not that long ago when I saw it – a totally kick-ass pair of shoes. They had the four inch heels, the laces that wrapped up the calf, done in fuchsia leather. I actually, while in the midst of the brain fart of the century, considered buying the damned things. Then I realized the problem. What would I do with them? I sure as heck wouldn’t wear em. For starters, to where? The market or maybe my next appointment with the massage therapist? That would be cute, but handy. Even though I would be late arriving there, because it took me two hours to do up the damned laces on the shoes, she would stand there, eternally patient as she always is, watching me struggling to get the shoes off, then finally pulling some garden shears from my suitcase… ooops, I mean purse… so I could cut the suckers off. That would be the cute part. The handy part would be having her there to help me try to stand up again after twisting my back while walking in them, falling off them twice and messing up my ankle. She would adjust, massage, work away the pains, all the while adding just that right amount of gentle touch to my seriously bruised ego. We baby boomers love our massage therapists.
Our priorities have changed. While car shopping, we are now looking at the one that gives us the best mileage and will fit into that tiny space in front of the health clinic door. We look forward to Friday night, because we know the kids will be out and the house will be quiet, so we can fall asleep in front of the television set while watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote. Grocery shopping, we opt for the fiber and roughage aisles, and…. *gasp*… we clip coupons, because you know the economy is going in the tanker. We have to watch our money now. I call this being responsible. My son, who just dropped over a grand on a new laptop that will do everything for him but pump the gas in his car, calls it being anally retentive. It cannot be stressed enough how important anal retention can become as we age. He will learn… and I will be there smiling as he does.