O fortuna!

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Now that the weather has cooled down to acceptable temperatures, I have been taking care of a few chores that I had avoided all summer long. Purging clutter has been chief among them. I attacked my closet and decided to get rid of any shoes that have gone unworn since I moved here.

Sadly, even with this generous measuring stick—four years exactly—I found myself reluctant to part with a few pairs of shoes. Perhaps these hanger-on will be cut in the next round. Meanwhile, I managed to divest myself of twenty or so pairs of shoes.

This makes me sound like the heroine of a chick lit novel. It’s very misleading. I’m not materialistic, honest. It’s just that I seem to have accumulated quite a few samples of footwear over the years, which is just silly, considering that I wear basically the same three pairs of shoes over and over: the functional brown pair, the functional black pair, and the other functional black pair. And also the sneakers, but still. There’s no good reason to fill my closet floor with dozens of pairs, no matter how pretty or classy or sexy or cute they are. (I had to explain this to myself three or four times, but I got there, eventually.)

So, wearing my ratty pink velcro sneakers, I marched a bunch of women’s size 8 shoes up to the thrift store. There are two thirft stores within convenient walking distance, actually, but the one in support of sick children didn’t get the goods because it’s located on the other side of the street and I didn’t feel like crossing traffic. Instead the disabled vets got my shoes.

I want everyone to stop and appreciate, here, that the following sequence of events was set in motion by not one but two good causes: I was cleaning up my apartment, and I was donating good shoes to the disabled vets.

Because of the decluttering in my closet, I became reacquainted with several pairs of shoes that had been relegated to the dusty corners. While I was dressing for work on Wednesday, I spied a pair of gorgeous, knee-high hand-me-down black boots.


I had never before worn them. I’d tried a few years ago, but zipping them over my womanly thighs had proved impossible.


I’ve lost some weight since then, thanks in large part to healthy if dull lunches such as tomato-based vegetable soup. There were some suspenseful moments, but I managed to wrestle them onto my legs.


I woried that I might lose all circulation to my lower extremities.


I still have all ten toes.


It was while I was walking down the stairs from my apartment that the sole on the left boot decided to part ways from the main shoe.


After I’d hobbled back up to my apartment to switch into a pair of functional black shoes, I discovered that I’d left my coffee sitting on the counter.


During the time when I would have been settling into the day’s work routine and drinking my coffee, I was cleaning up tomato-based vegetable soup. Apparently, when I had stumbled, I had loosed the lid from my lunch.


The tomato-based vegetable soup spilled all over the books in my tote, but it only hit the covers of my library books. They cleaned up like a charm.


The tomato-based vegetable soup had noticably affixed itself to a personal book I had borrowed from a colleague.


My colleague had forgotten that she’d ever loaned the book to me in the first place, so she wasn’t that chuffed.


It was about this time that I realized that the tomato-based vegetable soup had spilled onto my skirt.


There is a sweater we keep in the Reference workroom, normally used my people who get cold easily (i.e., not me, not in a million years) but available to someone who, for instance, might want to borrow it to wrap around her middle so as to hide the red tomato-based vegetable soup stain on her skirt.


It is this hideous red knitted thing, which is probably why no one’s ever taken it home.


Immediately after stepping into the public area of the library, the tomato-based vegetable soup declared its effectiveness in a dramatic way.


That is to say,  my skirt decided to fall down a few inches.


The hideous red knitted sweater, knotted about my waist, shielded my Superman undies from public view.

…My reading of this is that all of the good fortune came from the disabled vets, and all of the bad fortune from the sick kids. I think the lesson here is that, henceforward, I need to split the spoils evenly between both.


2 responses »

  1. I dearly hope that you kept the Hello Kitty doc marten shoes. I have always admired these.

  2. Sorry, was out of town– but I should hope it goes without saying that I would never relinquish my hold on the (knockoff) Doc Marten kitty shoes.


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