August 6, 2011. Santa Barbara, California, the day of my nephew’s wedding. Our younger daughter, Lisa, and Joe and I had flown here the day before, and were now lodged in a tidy Super 8 Motel just outside the airport, north of town.
Something bizarre happened in that room.
It was time to don our fine clothes. I’d brought a favorite cream-colored blouse with lots of buttons and lace, and a wine-and-navy silk skirt. Lisa and Joe always look elegant, but we stared at me, amazed. I remind Joe of the Peanuts character, Pigpen, as I move around the garden with a smudged face, frowsy hair, earth-crusted hands and muddy gardening knees. Now the bathroom mirror showed a cleaned up version I barely recognized. “Whew,” Joe remarked. “I haven’t seen you look this good since, ah, the last time.” We couldn’t remember when that was.
“Now I’ll rise to the occasion,” I grinned and slid into my comfortable, well-made navy blue heels, which exactly matched the skirt’s blue. They did look spiffy, but—wait a minute!
As I padded around, they seemed reluctant to leave the ground! I’d take a step- they’d stick to the carpet. I’d try to pull away: a bit would stay behind. It kept happening. Sole bits cleaved to the carpet, showing where I’d just been. Absurd!! This couldn’t be happening. Bewildered, I walked outside (with great difficulty) onto the wide cement balcony, then re-entered our room. Shoe bottom-bits remained, glued to the concrete. “Joe,” I wailed, “this is really peculiar!”
I lifted a foot and yelped as a heel tip fell off. With every step, more shoe sloughed away. No doubt about it. My heels were crumbling!! Desperately I removed the left one: it actually stuck to my hands. Stupidly I tried to fit things together, but my gluey fingers adhered to each other. I slip-slid off what was left of the other shoe, a tricky maneuver, because the now-slippery interior had begun to bond with my nyloned foot.
It was surreal.
I stared dully at a nylon scrap, now stuck to an insole, and tentatively poked the shoes again. Another bit dropped away.
I stared at the mess on the carpet and in my hands. The leather sides and other wooden heel were slick with damp glue. A little plop. There went the second heel!
In less than one minute, right before my eyes, my footwear experienced death-by-crumble-melt.
Finally, Lisa said, “ Mom, what’s happening here?”
I sighed. “ My heels are having a body and sole breakdown. Whoever heard of shoes behaving like this!”
My new hose was ruined: they followed the heels into the trash. We tried to gather up chunks, but they flatly refused to part with the carpet. (Fused. The perfect word.) Joe muttered, “I’d need a knife.” I fled to the bathroom to get glue-gunk off my hands. Three scrubs barely helped. I was still tacky.
“Nobody would believe this,” I moaned, as I tried to separate my fingers.
So. Here I was, beautifully dressed, with heels that had turned up their toes. And the wedding would begin in ninety minutes! My grubby brown jean sandals, though totally unsuitable, would have to do. Ever the optimist though, I realized it could have been much worse... What if I’d flown here in my Betty Boop flip-flops?
Hmmm. I tend to keep things a long time. Did this disintegration happen because the dead shoes were 20 years old? Nah. I’d worn them so seldom! And why today? Why all at once? Gremlins, maybe? Great age? Fate?
?
drawing by Elisabeth Blair
Something bizarre happened in that room.
It was time to don our fine clothes. I’d brought a favorite cream-colored blouse with lots of buttons and lace, and a wine-and-navy silk skirt. Lisa and Joe always look elegant, but we stared at me, amazed. I remind Joe of the Peanuts character, Pigpen, as I move around the garden with a smudged face, frowsy hair, earth-crusted hands and muddy gardening knees. Now the bathroom mirror showed a cleaned up version I barely recognized. “Whew,” Joe remarked. “I haven’t seen you look this good since, ah, the last time.” We couldn’t remember when that was.
“Now I’ll rise to the occasion,” I grinned and slid into my comfortable, well-made navy blue heels, which exactly matched the skirt’s blue. They did look spiffy, but—wait a minute!
As I padded around, they seemed reluctant to leave the ground! I’d take a step- they’d stick to the carpet. I’d try to pull away: a bit would stay behind. It kept happening. Sole bits cleaved to the carpet, showing where I’d just been. Absurd!! This couldn’t be happening. Bewildered, I walked outside (with great difficulty) onto the wide cement balcony, then re-entered our room. Shoe bottom-bits remained, glued to the concrete. “Joe,” I wailed, “this is really peculiar!”
I lifted a foot and yelped as a heel tip fell off. With every step, more shoe sloughed away. No doubt about it. My heels were crumbling!! Desperately I removed the left one: it actually stuck to my hands. Stupidly I tried to fit things together, but my gluey fingers adhered to each other. I slip-slid off what was left of the other shoe, a tricky maneuver, because the now-slippery interior had begun to bond with my nyloned foot.
It was surreal.
I stared dully at a nylon scrap, now stuck to an insole, and tentatively poked the shoes again. Another bit dropped away.
I stared at the mess on the carpet and in my hands. The leather sides and other wooden heel were slick with damp glue. A little plop. There went the second heel!
In less than one minute, right before my eyes, my footwear experienced death-by-crumble-melt.
Finally, Lisa said, “ Mom, what’s happening here?”
I sighed. “ My heels are having a body and sole breakdown. Whoever heard of shoes behaving like this!”
My new hose was ruined: they followed the heels into the trash. We tried to gather up chunks, but they flatly refused to part with the carpet. (Fused. The perfect word.) Joe muttered, “I’d need a knife.” I fled to the bathroom to get glue-gunk off my hands. Three scrubs barely helped. I was still tacky.
“Nobody would believe this,” I moaned, as I tried to separate my fingers.
So. Here I was, beautifully dressed, with heels that had turned up their toes. And the wedding would begin in ninety minutes! My grubby brown jean sandals, though totally unsuitable, would have to do. Ever the optimist though, I realized it could have been much worse... What if I’d flown here in my Betty Boop flip-flops?
Hmmm. I tend to keep things a long time. Did this disintegration happen because the dead shoes were 20 years old? Nah. I’d worn them so seldom! And why today? Why all at once? Gremlins, maybe? Great age? Fate?
?
drawing by Elisabeth Blair