Friday, April 13, 2012

Ridiculous Shoes: Crippling One Generation's Feet and Another's Hope.

TGIF, and happy weekend to you, friends.  Actually, for a waitress, this is the beginning of a long, slow crawl toward Sunday night when I can collapse back into the safety of my own kitchen and make dinner for my adorable family.  Sunday is my favorite night of the week.  I’m always exhausted, usually pretty close to brain dead from too many conversations about food with strangers, and always grateful to be back among those who love me most, tucked away from the vulnerability of working with...The Public.  There’s more good than bad in my relationship with The Public, but the bad can get really, really nasty.  

I feel about Sunday nights what most people feel about Friday nights, except that I am too old and too tired to celebrate them at the Club, if there is a Club in this town that’s open on Sunday nights.  There might be a Club, but I’ve never been and I probably don’t own the proper footwear to pass the door check.  The girls I see on the weekend who look like they’re probably going to The Club are usually wearing shoes that, as near as I can figure, have sharp, hot spikes embedded in the insoles.  Before midnight, they walk with very deliberate, awkward steps, their knees bowed to the sides, their posture tight with discomfort  They take each step toe-heel, toe-heel.  My friend Katy commented that they look a lot like camels walking.  Yes.  Exactly.  Like camels walking in shoes with hot, pointy spikes in the insoles.  Then after midnight, they just carry their shoes while they run to the next Club, all the while complaining that the sidewalk is too cold.  The city should do something about this.  I’ll start a petition for sidewalk warmers just as soon as I’m done with this blog.

Mostly I blame the Kardashian sisters for this phenomenon.  I’ve never watched the show, but I’ve seen enough tabloid magazine covers in the supermarket and clips on The Soup to suspect that they are solely and directly to blame for the future podiatric issues of an entire generation of girls (note to all persons considering a medical career, you are going to be very rich if you go into the foot doctor business), and also for the impossibility of finding a decent mascara that doesn’t make my eyelashes look like I took the black Bichon Frise out of my Louis Vuitton dog purse, cut him in half and glued him to my eyes.  Lucky for me, I still have a stash of my grandmother’s 25 year old Mary Kay mascara.  I’m probably poisoning myself every time I use it, and it smells a little like a cat litter box in the middle of a McDonald’s, but it doesn’t make me look like I have two scary black Amazonian spiders on my face.

I’m sure the Kardashians are really nice girls.  I really wish they didn’t make it so easy to be hard on them.  I should be ashamed of myself.  Maybe later.  

This morning when I joked to my son “It’s Friday, Friday, Gotta Get Down On Friday” he said that he really felt bad for Rebecca Black.  He said everyone makes fun of her, and that he heard she had to drop out of school because the mean kids were so awful to her.  I said I thought the song was really catchy.  He rolled his eyes.  “No, Mom.  The song is really awful, but that’s no reason to hate someone.”  This is a child who truly understands the number one concept I’ve tried to convince him of: everyone is someone to somebody.  We don’t survive infancy unless someone loves us enough to feed us and keep us warm.  

Let’s take a look at this Rebecca Black situation.  She was, in fact, bullied to the point of having to leave school last year.  For these lyrics:  

7am, waking up in the morning
Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs
Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal
Seein' everything, the time is goin'
Tickin' on and on, everybody's rushin'
Gotta get down to the bus stop
Gotta catch my bus, I see my friends (My friends)
Kickin' in the front seat
Sittin' in the back seat
Gotta make my mind up
Which seat can I take?

Not a very cool account of Friday, I’ll admit.  Pretty damn dorky.  But I would take a lot of comfort as a parent and as the future recipient of the next generation’s social security contribution if it wasn't so not cool that it gets you run off the school grounds.  Wanna hear a cool account of a Friday?  Here ya go... Miss Katy Perry:

There's a stranger in my bed
There's a pounding in my head
Glitter all over the room
Pink flamingos in the pool
I smell like a minibar
DJ's passed out in the yard
Barbie’s on the barbeque
Is this a hickey or a bruise
Pictures of last night
Ended up online
I'm screwed
Oh well
It's a blacked-out blur
But I'm pretty sure it ruled.  Damn.

Ummmmmmm...   Damn is right.  Also...Oh shit.  There is a whole group of short people who think that women’s footwear should cause permanent nerve damage and that if you’re not sure who you wake up with, not to mention if you made out with them or if maybe they hit you in the neck with a pink flamingo and then threw it into the swimming pool to wash off the dna after they raped you with it...the normal response is Oh well.  Later in the song she maxes out her credit card and then proclaims that she’ll do it all again next weekend.  I guess she’s going to get a new credit card.  She is not going to be paying into my social security any time soon.  Oh well.  At least it ruled, right?  Well, probably, anyway.  Damn.

So TGIF, Rebecca Black.  I am postponing my petition to the city for sidewalk warmers in favor of a national movement to declare ‘Friday, Friday Gotta Get Down On Friday’ the new National Anthem.  I want you to sing it at every major sporting event, presidential inaugurations, Academy Awards Ceremony, at my birthday party even if it's on a Tuesday;  I want to see you in your cute little flats and your chunky plastic jewelry on the newest printing of the ten dollar bill.  No, the twenty.  You are a national treasure.  It totally sucks that a whole generation of people idolize you but they are all old and afraid, but there you have it.  You are popular!  We fucking love you.  We would also like to see you and Katy Perry (in her ridiculous shoes) in a footrace followed by a match of Checkers to the death, because we are totally sure you can take her.  Hang in there, sugar, and stay away from pink flamingos.  

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