What's My Age Again?!

I have chosen to age very ungracefully.  More like kicking & screaming.  I'm 36 & mad about it.  I've been mad since about 26 at the idea of getting old.  Mad, mad, mad.  I find myself calling young adults "honey."  I carry a giant mom purse, and I'm not a mom.  Ok, my purses are still fashionable, but they're BIG.  And HEAVY.  The kind I would have mocked when I was 20. 

My criteria for buying shoes have very gradually reversed themselves from 1. very cute, 2. somewhat comfortable; to 1. very comfortable, 2. somewhat cute.  I fought this.  Fought it hard.  Still try sometimes.  Cause it makes me mad.  If you've worked with me for a few years, you know it's true.  I've almost killed myself several times in heels that are too high, straps that dig into my flesh, boots that are too confining, and other miscellaneous hazards.  This February (the winter from Hades), I actually wore my snow boots to work several times & did not bother changing them.  I got tired of it.  I gave up.  I am old.  I gave in to my old age.  But I was still mad about it.

I have been looking at women's motorcycle boots.  Yes, motorcycle boots.  Paul is making me.  He just got a new bike.  I digress.  Motorcycle boots are not cute.  There are about 3 pair out of the 50 that are out there that are a bit sexy in a leather fettish kinda way.  Those are the ones I'm considering.  Until I get them, wear them once, and decide they are too uncomfortable & give in, sacrificing youthfulness for comfort.  See, I told you.  Kicking & screaming.

I have a lot of shoe stories.  They are a metaphor for my aging I feel.  For example, a couple of years ago, I might have bought a pair of sandals that I thought were reasonably comfortable & very cute only to find that they were NOT comfortable after wearing them for 8+ hours at a time.  I would throw them in the back of my closet instead of giving them away, thinking I would magically be able to wear them without pain some day in the future.  Then I would ignore them for the rest of the season.  The next summer would come around, and I would find the painful shoes and think, "Wow, these are cute!  Wonder why I don't remember wearing them."  Then I would put them on, head to work, and remember 30 minutes into the day why I didn't remember them.  Because I only wore them once last season.  Because they were made by sadistic angry people with a vengeance for us elders.  Because they hurt!  I've wisened up.  Now I spend a good hour in DSW choosing my shoes wisely like a good old lady.

So, I guess I'm beginning to accept my age.  Slowly.  Age is just a number, right?!  That's what they tell me.  I like small numbers.