Tonight I did the grocery shopping, along with the rest of suburbia. I meandered around the big box, following my stream-of-consciousness list, composed randomly over the past week whenever we ran out of something.
I used to make my shopping lists according to the layout of the grocery store. I also used to shop in heels. I seriously used to wake up über early on Saturday mornings, put on some fashionably uncomfortable high-heeled boots, and hit the store so I could get the shopping done without little children in tow.
Remembering this made me want to wrap my arm around Younger Me and gently say, “Why don’t you dial it down a bit, sis. It’s okay to untwist those knickers.”
At what point does one stop pre-planning her grocery store inter-aisle route? When does one decide to stop wearing pumps while trudging around buying diapers and bananas? When do you say to yourself, “To heck with it. Groceries are not worth sacrificing sleep, or my arches?”
I suppose it happens the closer one gets to forty, or maybe the farther one gets from twenty. Perhaps it’s after a bunch of kids have pounded the need (or stamina) for high-heeled boots out of your system.
There comes a day when comfy shoes matter, like a whole lot. They matter more than what complete strangers think of your fashion sense or your footwear. They matter because the groceries aren’t going to purchase themselves, and cleaning up after people requires sensible footwear.
When I returned tonight from the swarming grocery store, I cleaned up the remains of a Code Brown and a lake of urine next to the potty (Me, to Jack: Whyyyyyyyy???!!!).
I also carried a too-tired five-year-old in from playing outside, moved laundry, and put away all those groceries, which is why it’s purple Nikes for me these days.