These are my huarache platform shoes. I have had them since 1975, and they have moved into every closet of every place I’ve ever lived in since. Trust me when I say that is a lot of places.
If they could talk they would tell you about two husbands, two kids, and everything in-between then and now. Thank God they can’t talk.
I have no idea why I’ve kept them. Somehow they have become intrinsically connected to my youth, or I’ve been saving them for a retro party I have yet to be invited to. One of the two.
I’m still a little bit mad about them nearly being worn out by the friend I loaned them to in 1976 before she gave them back. I’m almost over it. Especially since I still have that friend and I love her more than the shoes. Almost. She knows better than to make me choose.
I should throw them out, after all that is what my kids will do when they find them in the closet after I’m 6 ft under. My son won’t hesitate, but my daughter will pause just for a moment because she appreciates shoes. She just won’t understand why I kept this pair out of all of the hundred pairs of shoes I’ve had since.
I don’t either.
Maybe it’s because when I see them, I see who I was in them. A tall, thin, 17 year old who dreamed of endless possibilities and woke each day just excited to see what the day would hold. Time meant nothing, except being late for school or work.
I had all the time in the world.
I don’t anymore, and I just realized it. Dammit. It got real up in here.
I’m not as tall (I’ve shrunk a little from the weight of the world), definitely not thin, have no illusions about possibilities (but still dream them), and what I wake up to now is joint pain.
But I still have the shoes. They haven’t changed at all. I could wear them if I wanted to. But not out of the house. Because I’d be judged.
I’m looking forward to the time when I won’t care what people think of me and my choice of footwear. I’m almost there.
I won’t be considered weird then, just eccentric. Then I’ll be cool. Eccentric hip Grandma cool. The one that everyone wishes their Grandma would be like. That’ll be me. But I’m not a Grandma yet really. Dammit.
I’m still waiting for one of those two selfish kids of mine to have children. They love torturing me.
So between now and the time that I am a real Grandma, I have you dear diary.
You and my huarache platform shoes.
And I think I also have a bucket list. Since it got real up in here just now, I’d better find it. See you later.