Friday, July 11, 2008

Pammy Jones: The Quest for the Golden Shoe

The older I get, the more my world revolves around finding a truly comfortable shoe.

I know. Sad.

But, see...I have really wide feet. And they're like...short. Duck feet. Paddles. I inherited "the Avery paddle feet". Noooo...I couldn'ta inherited something a little more useful. Like a couple million bucks. I inherited duck feet.

Now, it's bad enough to have these duck feet. But...well...
sometimes they....swell. It's grotesque, really. Then they morph into these bizarre freaks of nature. Try to imagine what the feet of the offspring of Petunia Pig and Daffy Duck would look like. Scary, huh?

When I'm home, it's no problem whatsoever. See, I go barefoot...year-round. Always have. Even went barefoot for my weddin last year. If I have to wear shoes in the summer, it's sandals. Except when I work. Oh, we can wear sandals to work...if we're spending the whole day in the office. But they have this totally silly idea that we should wear real shoes when we're "in the field".

See, some of us spend a lotta time in we say "questionable"? of town. It comes with the job. And no. I'm not a hooker. But we're supposed to wear "real" shoes because...get we can run from trouble.


I'm sorry. I'm fat and old and I have a bad knee and I wear a size 40-DD bra and I ain't runnin NOwhere. With or without shoes.

Not even for the all-you-can-eat-lobster-and-cheesecake-buffet. Not even if some bad-ass wannabee has a gun pointed at my head. He'll just hafta shoot me and just then won't he be a big man?

"Yo! I just popped a cap in dat old, fat bitch. Yea. She had it comin. She wuz wearin some ugly-damn SHOES, man!"

If work was really concerned about my safety in the field, they'd let me carry concealed. Or at least go barefoot. I still prolly couldn't run. But I bet I could trot pretty good.

It's a stupid rule and stupid rules are meant to be broken. Or at least bent...juuuust to the breaking point. So I've spent the last couple of months tryin to bend it to the best of my ability. See, the All Hallowed Bible of Work, ie: the Employee Handbook, it defines sandals as "open toed".

Do you know how hard it is to find a closed-toe sandal? A comfortable closed-toe sandal? A comfortable, closed-toe sandal...for ducks?

I've been to every fuckin shoe store in Peoria. I've let my fingers do the walkin (cuz my feets' too swelled...HA!) all over the internet and back. And, finally...finally...I think I've found 'em.

(Cue the Indy Jones music.)Dah dah dah DAH!...dah dah dah. Dah dah dah DAH!...dah...dah...dah.dah.dah!

There should be sparkles all around 'em. And they should be restin on a big-assed pile of diamonds and gold dubloons and crystal skulls and snakes, even.

Ok, so I didn't hafta swing on any ropes or cross any mile-high, rickety-ass bridge made outa twigs to get 'em. Nice Mr. UPS Man delivered 'em right to my door today. And, I know. They look like some strange, genetically-altered mutation of a Mexican hurrache, an Earth Shoe and a Goodyear radial. But, see....I don't care what they look like. Because...

They feel like kittens and rainbows and puppies and chocolate covered cherries and Christmas on my poor little Petunia Pig/Daffy Duck feet!

They're swell! They're spiffy! They're
  • KEEN
  • !

    They're also pretty pricey.

    Oh, nowhere near the level of...say...Manolos. Or Jimmy Choos. But, still.
    My butt kinda squinched up when I hit the ole "BUY NOW" button.

    But I'm sooooooo worth it.

    Right, honey?


    I love youuuuu.



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