Leap of Faith

My first day of work at my new job is looming.

My left foot has taken on the size, shape and texture of a 3 pound ring baloney.

My first day outfit is in jeopardy. I can not bear to imagine jamming the ring baloney into a sassy pair of new boots with a 3 inch heel. The idea that shoes that have not been sufficiently broken in would touch the exposed nerve endings of my foot sends me sailing over the edge of reason. The thought of anything except bedroom slippers actually does exactly the same thing. I wonder if it is too late to get those hideous pumps they used to advertise by showing a bunch of women playing basketball in them?

I simply can not part with the dress. It is too cool. But the boots are what make it so fabulous. Without the boots, it's just a dress. A cute dress, but dainty, little ho-hum pumps would not do it justice. Kick ass boots seem more like justice.

Even as my foot throbs and sends shooting pain into my calf, I am indecisive.

I am sure there is a name for this. I am sure it is a name in a big, fat volume full of names of diagnosable mental disorders. I swear I'd wear shoes that felt like razor blades if they made my legs look great and pulled a look together flawlessly. So what if I am wincing and the circulation to my toes has been violently pinched off?

The morning comes. I have a choice to make. I have paperdolls with different combinations in my head. I can not decide.

I tap on Hil's door. She's thrilled to see me up and looking presentable from the shoulders up before school (I'd relaxed a little with the hair and makeup routine to be honest. Why waste a blob of anti-frizz creme when the only exciting thing you'll be doing is hiking in the woods? The squirrels wouldn't notice if I showed up naked.)

I tell her my dilemma. I pull out an alternative outfit. She knits her brow and glares up at me in pure disbelief. "You'd wear THAT on your first day?"

I pull out the original dress. As I pull out the pumps she tells me not to bother. "You are sooooo not wearing those things."

I pull out a different pair of boots. A tall black pair I've had for years. Italian. Stylish. Broken in like a favorite pair of sneakers. But black. And ordinary. And they don't pick subtly pick up the little swipes of color in the fabric the way the other boots do.

And then I tell her my original plan. Hang the dress on the door and pull out The Boots.

Hil has a visceral reaction. Can't avert her gaze. Has to touch them. She's stammering.

They are really cool.

When Hil regains her ability to speak, she gushes that she HAS to see the whole outfit on me.

I was afraid she'd say that. I go into my room and hang up my robe carefully. And slowly unbutton the dress on its hanger. I am dragging my feet. Literally and figuratively.

I put on the dress.

I put on the right boot. It is on the foot that does not look like it was roasted over a spit the night before.

Now the left.

Oh.
My.
Gawd!

It is so excrutiating that I nearly do not go through with it. If I get the boot on, I am not sure I'll have the nerve to get it off. Scraping the back of the boot across my leperous heel is about as appealing as home dentistry.

I hobble out to show Hil.

She beams. "Mom! That HAS to be what you wear! You look like you're in charge. You know, but nice. And fun."

Yes. In charge. And nice. And fun. And a good candidate for conscious sedation.

But the outfit is on me. And so it shall stay. And even though I wince with every step, I am stepping out into a brand new life today. And where my foot causes me to hesitate and look before I leap, my heart is ready for whatever lies on the horizon.