I've always considered my husband fortunate to have such a low-maintanance wife. I spend very little money on make-up, hair, and fashion. The years have altered this slightly since my inevitably advancing age has caused me to view these matters a bit differently. I use a little more make-up, visit the hair salon a couple more times a year, and... I've discovered that I really, really like shoes. Heels in particular.
This does not mean that I purchase very many of them or wear them often. It means that I window shop a lot more and enjoy pulling out taller foot apparel about once a week, generally on Sunday. The rest of the week I continue to pretend that I have not changed. My selection of cute shoes is relatively small and as much as I would love to enlarge it, can't imagine the shock it would effect on the Chief. I have spoiled him, really. This is going to take time to change.
So Sunday comes along and, hoorah! I pull out my favorite heeled boots. They make my feet hurt a bit but it's only an hour for Mass, right? I'll offer it up!
The one thing that I've forgotten is my 14-month old bundle of energy and testosterone. Sit in the pew? Mama, are you insane? The child uses the hour to the absolute fullest, finding every opportunity to run and shout. I have tried to take my own advice and am moderately successful. I am also exhausted at the end of it all.
Interestingly enough, I have discovered that high-heeled foot apparel is impractical for our Sunday adventures. Take the natural resistance that feet in general have to being in such a preposterous high-heeled position and add it to the particular aches and pains of my personal tootsies (i.e. formerly broken toe that will apparently afflict me until the end of my life), and the result is pain.
If it wasn't obvious that this discomfort is a cause of my vanity instead of my sanctity, I would happily carry the burden. As it stands, it is pure vanity; and I bear it unhappily... and stubbornly.
Two weeks ago, we (or rather, I) endured a particularly challenging Sunday Mass. I will spare you the extensive (and somewhat hilarious) details by just saying that it was a battle that involved everything from poinsettia plants to church basements to bathrooms to other people's fish crackers. As I was squatting down on the floor digging unidentified grey stuff from Little Cub's mouth, it struck me that my outfit and shoes were highly inappropriate for the event. Heeled boots that are jarringly uncomfortable. Long skirt that keeps tripping me up. Blouse that has to be dry-cleaned. I look out at the congregation, many of whom are dressed rather casually in jeans and athletic apparel, and think...
Would anyone notice if I wore my sneakers? Wouldn't it be more pleasing to God if I just set aside my pride and wore something more moderate?
Ah, but my pride... stubborn pride. The week passed quickly and Sunday rolled around again. I surveyed the shoe boxes in my closet and did not hesitate to grab the large one right in the middle that held my heeled boots. It's only an hour, after all.