THE TIME HAD ARRIVED IN MY LIFE when the thing I watched happening to so many other mothers was happening to me: my older children were trying to make me over.
"You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear", I sighed imploringly as I tried on shoes, patently manufactured for long slender feet instead of my short squat ones.
I'm deeply grateful for my feet, but why do I have to squeeze my E-fittings into these elegant concoctions?
"Pull, Mommy, you can!" my daughter stoutly asserted.
"I can't, truly" I insisted, looking helplessly at the saleslady for guidance. But before she could say anything, my daughter turned to her.
Nice pins
"My mother's got lovely legs, truly she has."
(Listening to her, I could feel my heart swelling. After all, the Eve in us never dies.)
"Of course, you can't see it, that's just because of those clodhoppers she wears."
"But I've got funny feet!" I protested.
"There's nothing funny about the feet, it's the shoes. Try these on - come on, just try."
It seemed such a short while ago that I was saying those same words to her while trying to get some baby porridge into her. But judging from the stern if motherly expression in her eyes, those days were long behind us.
The saleslady retired behind a noncommittal mask and I squeezed my funny feet into shoes whose designer would have torn his hair out if he knew where they'd eventually land up.
What can she say?
"You see? I told you she's got lovely legs, hasn't she?" my daughter said to the saleslady who could hardly disagree and answered "Very nice" in a mechanical way.
"Now the first thing you do is throw away those clumsy orthopaedic monstrosities into the wastepaper basket and get into the habit of wearing a decent shoe for a change", my daughter said decisively. "Hand me your purse, I'll pay."
"Gosh, that's decent of you", I murmured sarcastically, but my wit was quite wasted.
Knows it all
My daughter was in her seventh heaven.
"I told you", she told me triumphantly as we drove home. "All you need is a little guidance. Daddy will be so proud of you."
I doubted that very much. My husband hadn't complimented me on my appearance since we were engaged. No matter how great an effort I made, he never seemed to notice the difference. Come to think of it, that might have been one reason why I preferred comfort to beauty in my footwear.
Speaking looks
We went out to a function and my daughter enthused all the way. She must have been right because I got a few unusual looks. (I was wearing a new dress too, you see, as well as carrying the bag my son forced me to buy and they made me try a new hairstyle).
"What's up with you, Luky? You look nice, not like yourself at all, quite different", a colleague commented.
"You should feel my feet" I replied.
Would the afternoon never end, I wondered as red-hot pains shot up and down my feet. Every now and then my daughter beamed at me encouragingly as we passed each other.
"I told you you could do it", she whispered.
Home at last
When we got home I took my shoes off at the door and stumbling to my wardrobe made for the first pair of orthopaedic monstrosities I could find. With a sigh of relief I dragged them on my feet and pushed my elegant new buys far out of sight.
"Promise me you'll go in for this type of shoe from now on", my daughter coaxed from the door. "I was so proud of you today."
For once, her pleas failed to wring my heart.
Full stop
"Look here, I've got news for you", I replied belligerently. "I'm not one of Cinderella's ugly sisters, on the lookout for a Prince Charming. So I've no need to saw off my little toes. I'm a married woman. I've caught my bus. I've got six children and I'm overweight and dowdy. Too bad.
"I've got a lot of work to do which all requires much concentration and when my feet hurt I can't concentrate. So I'm going to wear my clodhoppers and relax."
Silently she turned away from the door and went to her room, casting a reproachful glance at me over her shoulder.
As for me, before going into the kitchen I wiggled all ten of my toes; my clodhoppers had space for each of them. What blessed relief.
Catherine Nicolette
That was an awful long time ago.In my own defence, all I wanted was for Mom to make the best of herself. It escaped me at the time that she - a happy and contented mom of six kids - already had, and looked lovely.
Embittered at the cavalier way Mom had treated my well meaning efforts, I busied myself with the many other things my sixteen year old self used to always find to do. Eventually landing up in the kitchen, I started doing some odds and ends there when Dad came in through the door.
Gazing at me, he asked, "What happened today?"
"Dad, you'll never guess what", I exclaimed. And told him the story. He was riveted. "She did, did she? And you told the lady at the shoe store .. ."
"That she had beautiful legs, yes, yes. And made her walk up and down in the shoes . . ."
Something in Dad's expression alerted me.
"And what did you call her shoes?" he mildly enquired with his Tramore accent.
"Orthopoedic monstrosities, Dad."
Silent mirth
At that my Dad began to shake. My initial concern turned to teenage outrage as his shaking dissolved into silent mirth. "Well, what would you have said, Dad?"
Dad laughed even more. "What I say is that you're a far braver person than I am to take on your Mom."
As he began leaving the room, I said, "Well Dad, I'll bet before she wore those shoes today you'd never noticed that she has such beautiful legs."
Dad turned back to me and said, "Oh yes, I noticed the first time I met her. Why did you think I married her so some other man didn't get her? She is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, whatever shoes she likes to wear."
Slightly scandalised and deeply impressed by the note of romance on which the shoe saga ended, I let the matter rest.
Networking with nieces
Many years later, I was going out with my nieces who looked disparagingly at my footwear.
"Please Auntie Nog, tell us you're not going to wear those while you're out with us?" the one begged.
I looked down with affection at my flat and sensible brown shoes, which have carried my feet through many hours of tramping over different countries on long charitable field trips.
"Why, what's wrong with them?" I asked.
My niece rolled her eyes to heaven dramatically, "Where do I START?" she enquired.
"Look at my shoes next to yours."
She placed her elegantly shod little feet next to mine. The Italian heels on their still new beauty contrasted next to my shoes in much the same way as a designer original compares to an old pair of bedsocks.
"Can you see the difference? Can you?" she demanded. A light crept into her eyes - much like that of the zeal of a reformer.
"I know what, Auntie Nog. We'll take you out shopping to buy a new pair."
My mind flashed back to many years ago, and Mom had my full sympathy. I knew just how she must have felt. The situation tickled my sense of humour, and I said, "Of what? Orthopoedic monstrosities?" and I gave way to a fit of giggles.
My nieces looked uncomprehendingly at one another. Sometimes my humour totally escapes them.
"What do you mean, Auntie Nog?"
"Never mind. Just ask your Ouma - she'll tell you", I said.
"My shoes are staying the way they are."
"But we want to help you" they coaxed. "You'll look so lovely with new shoes."
"Listen girls," I said, "thanks, but no thanks. I got in there a generation before you.
Like Ouma, I now prefer comfort."
There is nothing new under the sun . . .
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