This post is dedicated to my friend Sarah. Sarah is a bad-ass poetess with the coolest cadence to her voice, oh, only ever. When I try to mimic it (and you better believe I have), I end up sounding like a squeaky 4th grader. Ok, ok, I always sound like a squeaky 4th grader, but we don’t need to dwell on that anymore. She can also drop the F-bomb and make it sound very precise and snappy, another feat which I only achieve on occasion.
Sarah is now my 9th follower on Twitter (@JillsBrilliant– FOLLOW ME! YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO!) and therefore deserves a prize…?
(To be truthful, I have twice had 11 followers. Two of them were lesbians with identical pictures of them making out. I got excited that I was reaching a more diverse audience. Then they deleted me. Now I’m being followed by someone whose handle includes the word “fetish.” Here’s hoping I don’t actually know him or her.)
In reality, her attentions to me just reminded me of why Sarah loves me– a story quite worthy of a blog post, I assure you.
To say that our senior level poetry class was…unique…would be a courtesy that I’m not sure we deserve. It was a bit of a disaster, really. But a Beautiful Disaster, in the Kelly Clarkson sense of the term. (For some reason, Kelly Clarkson also reminds me of Sarah. Did we discuss her at one time? I honestly can’t remember…) One day, almost simultaneously, Sarah and I quipped to a classmate, about a revision that she had made to a poem,”Can you please change it back so you call her a bitch? I really want to know that she’s a bitch!”
It was not long after this event that the besloggering mess known as winter began, and not only was I completely ill prepared for the layers of clothing required in the ancient building in which our class met, but it was extremely inconvenient.
For my shoes.
My shoes would get soaking wet! Puddles everywhere! And then my socks would be wet, and then my feet would be cold, and then I would not be a pleasant person to be around. (If I am nothing else in this world, I am a pleasant person to be around, dammit.)
When the snow came and my trusty snow boots made their final appearance, it was even worse. Yes, my feet were warm, but those suckers are heavy. They tracked in snow, made a general mess of things, and by the end of the day, my poor legs were tired.
Snow boots are also not…ahem…the most attractive of accessories. Call me vain if you wish, but I prefer to think of myself as “professional.” I like wearing nice shoes. My professors are the ones who got me into grad school. Eventually, they will get me a big person job. Someday, they may even get me on the Ellen Degeneres Show. My charming personality and winning intelligence are the primary reasons why I will become famous, but I do not deny the potential of great shoes.
What’s an ambitious girl to do when forced to wear snow boots at the most crucial moment in her academic history?
Bring along extra shoes, of course.
Flip flops fit in a purse, lunch box, coat pocket, or, if you’re wearing a baggy shirt, between the boobs. The last one might not be true.
Flats are perfect in a backpack, book bag, knapsack (which is different from a backpack, duh), or with one up each sleeve.
Boots require extra space, so a bag with an open zipper is a must. Make sure the laptop isn’t overly large and that any notebooks necessary for school can withstand a little bit of rain or now. Your notes on the chemistry of rocket fuel made from toenail clippings? Not important.
(If any real astronauts read this post, please do not take this satirical statement to indicate that I believe your profession to be anything other than the highest form of success in life. Or that I actually know how to make rocket fuel out of toenails.)
This is all completely true. I’d walk into a room, sit down, and promptly slip off my shoes, trading for another pair tucked away in a super secret compartment. I’d pray that no one could smell any unpleasant odor emanating from the sorry plastic lining of my feet’s accouterments…or my socks. When the hour was up, I’d trade shoes again and trudge back into the snow/mud/Saturday night trash, packing my precious walking apparel for another day.
I just really, really, really love my shoes.
This story is going to have a disappointing ending, because the only appropriate “clincher” would be a picture.
A picture of me.
A picture of me with multiple pairs of shoes.
A picture of me, looking adorable and well-adjusted, with multiple pairs of shoes.
Unfortunately, significant Facebook stalking of Sarah and all of our mutual friends through our department has yielded no results. I am neither confirming nor denying the existence of such a picture. With that, I take my leave.
Follow me on Twitter! @JillsBrilliant!