Socks In Crocs

I have a pair of shoes to which I refer as my Work Shoes. This is the nth pair in a long line of plain black shoes that go with all my pants and can be worn on a daily basis, because, really, my cubicle job neither calls for nor affords me an extensive work shoe wardrobe.

This particular pair of Work Shoes were purchased about three months ago. They are also known as my Old Lady Loafers, because that is what they are. Take a look at the feet of old ladies at a mall sometime. Are they wearing loafers? Check. Is there elastic at the sides or top to replace difficult-to-tie laces? Check. Are they nearly devoid of any other distinguishing features? Check. Do they scream the possibility of bunions or other foot maladies at you? Check. You have spotted yourself a pair of Old Lady Loafers. I may only be thirty-four, but those old ladies sure know how to dress their feet in comfort.

These Old Lady Loafers had a minor creak when I tried them on at the store, but this is the way it is with some leather shoes, and it usually works itself out. I bought them for a decent sale price and threw out my old pair of Work Shoes, which had graduated to a level of wear just this side of repulsive.

During the first week in the Old Lady Loafers, the creak turned into a squeak, but if I turned my feet out just a touch, I could avoid it. By the second week, the squeak was louder in the right shoe than in the left. By the third week, the squeak was in both shoes and from several different points on each shoe. They were becoming veritable squeak toys. By week four, the creaking had returned to flesh out the quiet spaces between squeaks.

A group of University students laughed at me once. I saw a finger covertly pointing at me at the drugstore. It was clear that the Old Lady Loafers had to either be fixed or sent off to that great landfill in the sky.

When I put my Old Lady Loafers on this morning, they made such rude noises that my cats jumped to keep their distance before I even stood up. I tried oiling the seams along the soles with baby oil, and although that made them smell good, it only seemed to raise the pitch of the noise and make them look a little slick.

Without another pair of black Work Shoes to fall back on, I did the only thing I could do. I put on my rubber Crocs Primas.

That's right. I am wearing Crocs with socks in Saskatchewan in December. My walk to the bus this morning was one that would horrify mothers everywhere. In fact, I could hear my mother's voice from twenty-five years ago echoing Where are your boots, missy?! That is not proper footwear! I don't want to have to say I told you so. But it was all I could do with what I had. Now I am spending a good portion of my day hiding my rubber-clad feet under my desk. I am like a female version of those middle-aged and older men who wear socks with sandals, only it is winter and I am in a professional office.

I chose the lesser of two shames. At least, this way, I can walk to the bathroom and back without hearing co-workers yell out from their offices Does anyone hear that? What is that? Would someone call the photocopier repair guy already?

I am a participant in Holidailies 2007.

Why I Saw My First Psychiatrist, Part Five

50x365 #82: Mrs. Florence