By Fyears: Guest blogger
There’s no longer any point in denying it. I have become my mother.
If there was any doubt after a look at the cottage cheese and take-out Chinese containers that now outnumber my Rubbermaid and Tupperware collection, my purchase this weekend clinched it.
I now own Peds, the no-show socks they give you to try on shoes, or at least the Target variety of the ones you use until the elastic wears out.
Sigh. I might as well start reusing aluminum foil. Oh wait, I already do that, albeit in the name of environment-protecting recycling.
It’s just that I bought a pair of those adorable flats that fashionable women have been wearing for a couple of years (thereby guaranteeing that they will promptly go out of style, by the way). You know, the kind that barely cover your toes.
Well, my shoes are rigid leather wannabe, not the squishy ones, which seemed flimsy, too much like wearing slippers to work.
These flats are pretty comfortable, at least when worn with socks. But I went wild and wore them with a skirt the other day, without socks.
I didn’t even walk farther than the break room down the hall a few times, but by mid-afternoon I was regretting the fashion statement. The base of my toes where the shoe line hit had developed a painful red dent and my heels were on the road to blister-ville.
Hence, my reluctant acknowledgement once again that Mom knew what she was doing. All those years when Peds were her year-round socks of choice in the hot climate where she lives, I wouldn’t have been caught dead in them. I’m quite sure my obnoxious teenage self let her know that more than once. Peds? Eww!
But if I’m going to wear these shoes, I need a no-show sock. Hence my foray into the land of faux Peds, now conveniently in a low-cut design that fits my low-cut shoes. Ahh, much better.
These days, Mom’s socks of no-choice — doctor’s orders — are orthopedic stockings that she needs the help of an aide to put on each morning.
So I guess as long as I’ve only become the version of my mother of 30 years ago, it’s not SO bad. Right? If I can just hold off on the orthopedic stockings….
Fyears is a writer who is well entrenched in the F-years of life (forties and fifties) but nevertheless is devoted to ignoring that fact and acting someone else’s age (preferably someone in the latter T-years) whenever possible.