Every woman should have at least one pair of entirely impractical shoes. I don't care if you only put them on to go to the bathroom. They should be there in your closet to remind you of your dress-up roots. (We all have them buried somewhere within us; it's part of the female DNA.)
I bought another pair of impractical shoes today. They are fushia. Stiletto sandals. (Not too tall.) I'm in love with them. I found them in a small shoe store filled with all sorts of unpronounciable Brazilian brand names. I've only worn them to the bathroom so far.
My purchase today got me thinking about my wandering roots. I'm not much of a shopper because I equate shopping with hunting. There'a s purpose in mind, and purpose doesn't usually bring me the refuge from the world that I crave.
Wandering, on the other hand, has no purpose. There's no time frame. I'm not obligated to load plastic bags in my car.
I wander more than I realized. Sometimes I hop in the car and drive without regard for the cost of gas. Other times I just walk out the front door and pace in winding circles around my property or on the school campus or in a strange new place.
I've wandered alone on foot through the streets of Washington, D.C. and Cancun and a small town called Hubbard. I've wandered in silence with friends and acquaintances through Dallas and Vegas and Nashville. I've paced beaches in Melbourne and Sarasota and Nassau. My first cruise was nothing more than 3 days of me wandering all through the ship at all hours of the day.
Then there's the wandering I do in my head. Through books. Through the internet. Through the endless array of puzzles and stories and rabbit holes that bounce through my mind in the course of a day.
I like it that way. It's this wandering streak within me that leads me to the most fascinating places. It's funny how you start to recognize the pieces that make up who you are. I've been a wanderer for as long as I can remember, but only lately have I come to see just how much a piece of me this is.
I bought another pair of impractical shoes today. They are fushia. Stiletto sandals. (Not too tall.) I'm in love with them. I found them in a small shoe store filled with all sorts of unpronounciable Brazilian brand names. I've only worn them to the bathroom so far.
My purchase today got me thinking about my wandering roots. I'm not much of a shopper because I equate shopping with hunting. There'a s purpose in mind, and purpose doesn't usually bring me the refuge from the world that I crave.
Wandering, on the other hand, has no purpose. There's no time frame. I'm not obligated to load plastic bags in my car.
I wander more than I realized. Sometimes I hop in the car and drive without regard for the cost of gas. Other times I just walk out the front door and pace in winding circles around my property or on the school campus or in a strange new place.
I've wandered alone on foot through the streets of Washington, D.C. and Cancun and a small town called Hubbard. I've wandered in silence with friends and acquaintances through Dallas and Vegas and Nashville. I've paced beaches in Melbourne and Sarasota and Nassau. My first cruise was nothing more than 3 days of me wandering all through the ship at all hours of the day.
Then there's the wandering I do in my head. Through books. Through the internet. Through the endless array of puzzles and stories and rabbit holes that bounce through my mind in the course of a day.
I like it that way. It's this wandering streak within me that leads me to the most fascinating places. It's funny how you start to recognize the pieces that make up who you are. I've been a wanderer for as long as I can remember, but only lately have I come to see just how much a piece of me this is.
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