Shoes, the Magical Fruit?
It was a beautiful day in Glasgow—something that I did not plan for. The overwhelming consensus told me to pack for cold weather. So, I packed many sweaters … now these sweat-hers are fitting to the name because I was sweating and it wasn’t pretty. Because my secondhand store radar is always working, I spotted four stores on our first walk through the section of town we are staying.
First stop, score. Now, I had to decide between three cute pair of sandals. Running through my wardrobe I picked a pair of pink rhinestone sandals that looked functional aside from the sparkle—I heart sparkle—and the cute gold ones came in a close second. A little jazzy but they would go with a lot of things. I quickly put the gold ones on in line to alleviate the internal heat that was near combustion. A smile on my face and full of satisfaction, I began to stroll down the street … what was that noise? I didn’t want to look behind me for embarrassment on the other person’s part. It sounded like a “toot.” I walked a little fast to avoid eye contact only to find out that the cute gold sandals fit my foot so perfectly that every step I took suctioned just the right amount of air and at lift off a fart noise came out. Unbelievable … I sounded like a farting machine gun while briskly walking back to the store.
Looking around, shoulders back, confidence written all over my face with a flatulence problem. Nice. Now, how was I going to explain to the lady at the counter the reason for my return? An exchange was made for the third runner up, gold and brown wrap around the ankle with metallic fabric. That might sound a bit funky, but they are a nice common pair of wedge sandals. Impractical, maybe, while walking the cobble stone street of Scotland, but it beat the “tooting” pair.
No time to get ready for dinner, as expected. (Then why didn’t I get ready?) Jaige and his newfound Bayesian buddies were going for a pint. I dashed out the door with my second time around gold and brown sandals, explaining to Jaige that wedges will actually be okay, especially compared to stilettos. Just yesterday, I was snickering, while nudging Jaige, to share in my stupid tourist find. My ha, ha, ha, head back laughing self who was trying to rationalize wedge over stilettos nearly fell on her arse. Lucky for me it was rush hour traffic at a main intersection in Glasgow. Karma …
Recovering nicely with little visible wounds to the observing eye, we continued on our quest for some lads and a pint. Ouch, there is something rubbing on my foot; ouch, the other foot too. Okay, long story short, the fabulous fabric sandals were rubbing my foot raw. I undid the strap, re-arranged the straps, and was rescued by my husband. The same man who before leaving the B&B quoted Stacey and Clinton, from What Not to Wear on TLC, about how shoes are a great way to add a splash of color to an ordinary outfit. He figured out a way to make them stay on and stop the bloody spots on my foot from getting worse. My hero. The shoes look so much better in the trash can next to my bed!