Hello Middle Age and Farewell to Hooker Shoes

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In a few days, and I’m not saying exactly how many because I do not celebrate the occasion, my birthday will be rolling into town.

Statistically speaking, I’m approaching middle age. No, that’s wrong. Statistically I am middle aged. Most people still don’t reach the century mark and if I’m lucky to tap out at the biblical “three-score years and ten”, well, then I’ve been middle aged for a while. Who’d a thunk? Really. It sneaks up on you in extremely weird ways.

You start innocently and understandably enough, by listening to talk radio (online, of course) when there’s a world crisis on and before you know it, not only do you find yourself tuning in on a regular basis, which you remember swearing you’d never do, but you catch yourself talking back to the radio. You worked yourself into a lather mixing it up in whatever discussion, albeit unheard by the other participants but well understood by the dog, who has developed a tendency to cower under the kitchen table when he hears the phrase “Right-wing NRA nutjobs”.

Middle age has insinuated itself into other areas of my life as well. I gave up on hooker shoes a while back. Seriously, I’ve got some gorgeous gams and rocked hooker shoes like nobody’s business from the time I could buy my own shoes until round about the new millenium. I’d squeeze my extra-wide Wilma Flintstone feet into some cheap skyscraper heeled patent leather footwear and torture my poor piggies, in pain but satisfied in knowing that my shapely ankles, elegant calves and adorable knees were causing Pavlovian responses all around. After the bunion debacle of 2000 and the heelspur adventure of 2005, the hooker shoes were retired. Since then it has been my continual mission to find the shoe combining the right amount of ooh-la-la with comfort. I wore these to a party recently. I figured the fishnets would be a distraction.

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While prepping dinner the other day “Blurred Lines” came on the radio (Sublime FM, Cool Funky Jazz– because I am middle aged, online because I am still hip) and I busted a move. Ok. I twerked. Sue me. I thought nobody was home but the dogs.

Joe College shimmered into the kitchen, covered his eyes and managed to squeak out a “Whoa! Mom!” before I could further embarrass myself. “You don’t like that song, do you?”. Yes, I’ve reached that point in life where lyrics to pop songs are irrelevant as long as I can bust a move in the privacy of my own kitchen. I no longer know who’s in the top 10 on the music charts, nor do I care. For the longest time, I assumed the Kardashians were a band, like the Partridge Family. Joe settled me down with a coffee and explained the lyrics of “Blurred Lines” to me in detail. My middle aged self was shocked. My feminist self was horrified. My son suggested sticking to the music of my own era or earlier from now on. I chased him out of the house with a rolling pin. Lucky I wasn’t wearing hooker shoes. 

 

 

But by far the most telling symptom of middle age is my recent purchase of a SHOPPING TROLLEY. I  love it!

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* Images except the 2 photos of myself were found at Google

** Crossposted from my main blog at Oursalon.ning.com

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2 responses »

  1. Loved this post, Misirlou, and I can so identify. However, I’ve been wearing sensible shoes for awhile now, usually sneakers or loafers. Comfort is the primary goal here. I, too, still love to “bust a move” to any good tune I hear, from my old Motown faves to Justin Timberlake “Suit and Tie” ( I think that’s the title.) Keep the fun stuff coming, girl!

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