This is sort-of a reply to last week’s Carnivale, but although I’d love the exposure and hits, I didn’t feel right about participating, then, because I have an anti-answer.
When I wear a shoe and it wears me out, I discard it: I push it to the back of my closet, hoping for *a day when um, I won’t walk that much, yeah*.
But those days never seem to come.
Class to class (elevators!); sure, but it’s building to building. Then shopping. Or even errands. It always takes me some distance.
It’s like those expensive bags I buy, but never carry, because I’ll get flak for buying them. Oh, someday! I say I’m now keeping the python/red suede bag for Fall. I do looove the thing. (The python makes a butterfly pattern!) And the Dior saddle pouch—well, my mom might know it’s Dior. Sure, I’ll say it was a bargain on sale (but it’s relative). I’m just not sure.
It’s not pain, I’m a pansy about pain. It’s money. I have no concept of it. And it’s bags. The bags are killing me, and I’m begging them to let me.