Walk a mile
My feet hurt. Both of
them. Every day. It’s because I wear heels 9 hours a day, five
days a week. Maybe more accurately, I
choose to wear heels 9 hours a day, five days a week. There’s nothing in my job description that
says I MUST wear heels every day. There’s
nobody out there who will tell me my shoes aren’t within regulation. There’s no rule that says I have to wear suntanned
colored panty hose instead of nude or taupe or black with my heels. My boss will never come to me and say, “Hey,
I’m not sure those heels are 2 and ¼ inch high.
Can you change them?” There is no
policy dictating my choice in footwear.
I choose to wear them.
Professionalism. Desire.
Image. There’s a lot of
reasons. But all of those reasons are by
choice.
Judgment
I’m very aware of my shoes.
That’s why I insist that people compliment them at the beginning of
every conversation. Basically, it
translates to “like my shoes, or you aren’t getting shit from me.” But let’s be
honest, my shoes are marginal, at best.
But, in my twisted perspective, if you acknowledge my shoes, you acknowledge
my journey. People who know me the best,
know that’s what I want. That and really
good shoes. Since I can’t afford really
good shoes, I’ll accept meaningless compliments about the one’s I can
afford. That’s also true for my
life. I can’t afford a really good one,
so at least acknowledge the one I’ve made with what I’ve got. It’s symbolic of the metaphor “walk a mile in my shoes.”
And if, in the off chance, you don’t feel obligated enough
to compliment my shoes, judgment always slips in. I really want people to admire my shoes. I want others to walk down my path. I want people to acknowledge my journey. But when other people want to share their
experiences with me, I get real ambivalent.
Oh, you’re trying to save money to ensure a better future for your
family? Take your six figure income and
move on. Or, maybe, you’re having a hard
time with your child? Try to do it by
yourself. And, my favorite, you hate a
job you only have to put in a solid 10 hours in a week at? Huh. My
deepest condolences. I get real critical
when people want to tell me about their struggles. But for the love of God, those people better
respect mine.
Humility
Then, sometimes, shit gets real. Sometimes, real people with real troubles
cross my path. When I meet those people,
I am humbled immediately. These are the
people who make me eat every word I’ve ever uttered. These are the people who
have been dealt a really ugly hand, and still, come up all aces. Like my friend Albie who first walked into my
life almost four years ago. And the
first day I met him, I hated him. He
said “I need to see a doctor.” I looked
at the fins in the wings he wore on his uniform, and I said “in two weeks.” I don’t like rescue swimmers. They are arrogant and entitled and real
demanding. I looked at the wings on his
left chest and I got real indignant. I
actually said to Albie in one of our first encounters “You can’t walk because
you spent 20 years jumping out of helicopters.”
As if, by choosing to be a hero, he deserved to sacrifice his body and
his lifestyle. Like the 20 years he
spent jumping out of helicopters in to frigid and hostile waters, to save the
lives of people he had never met before, or would never meet again, warranted
the 20 surgeries that will guarantee lifelong disability.
Shoes
There were many before Albie. There have been many since Albie. There are MANY people who remind me that the
shoes we wear are not important, but the road we travel in those shoes is what’s
important. The six-year old girl, with
the bald head and an elbow implant. The family
orphaned by a terminal father. The young
man who’s hand I held steady while he wrote his name on the top of a duty status
chit. The man who I had expected to be
my boss one day, paralyzed in a random accident , who’s fate was conveyed to me
in a late night text message from the hospital:
“you might want to start grooming a new boss.” The kid with pilot’s wings, who didn’t even
look old enough to drive a car, much less an aircraft, who walked through the
door with a career ending injury and an honest laugh. Those are the people who remind me about
shoes. Their shoes are the biggest shoes
to fill.
Anyway, back to Albie.
After I got over my stigma about swimmers. After I stopped judging him because of the
stereotype. After I stopped expecting
him to be a dick as a result of his trade, we became friends. One day, at lunch, I asked him “How do you
cope with all of this?“ He looked at me
and confessed: “My dad used to tell me
when I was growing up ‘You aren’t as bitchin’ as you think you are.’ He was right.” And my world stopped. I thought to myself “Whaaaatttttt??????” So let me get this straight. Other people have walked in my shoes. Other people have traveled my journey? I’m not the ONLY person to ever feel pain or
beat adversity or have fought the good fight?
(whatever the fuck that means.) But
most importantly, I thought “I’m not as bitchin as I think I am.” And neither are my shoes.
-Inner Peas
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