I have a bad habit of wearing shoes that pinch and rub and leave angry red welts scattered across my tender feet.
When I was younger, as my blistered toes screamed in agony, my mother would scold, "Sara! You can't keep treating your poor feet this way! You won't get a second pair!"
And my fashion-unconscious father would just shake his head.
It's puzzling, really, that a girl who spent most of college in flip-flops and prefers being barefoot above all will periodically force her toes into sharply pointed heels or shiny, strappy wedges or sleek, buckled flats for the sheer fact that they make me feel pretty.
Lately, suddenly, and quite without precedent I assure you, I have been hit with a need to simplify and rearrange and organize, organize, organize!
Unable to sleep last Saturday morning, I began frantically digging through dresser drawers--discarding, re-folding, paper-clipping and labeling my way through stacks of life's clutter.
Uncharacteristically, I told myself--quite sternly--to forgo all inner nostalgic predisposition and systematically toss various mementos that at least at one time, I would have kept for no better reason than to remember.
It was imperative, somehow, that everything have a place. A purpose. A useful reason for being.
But even still, on occasion, I would linger on a particular item--a silly note, a random birthday card, a journal from three years ago--and I would stop and think despite all my rationale, I can't let go of everything...
And now I sit, with a mounting to-do list and a wandering mind, and as I restlessly tap my foot, I catch a glimpse of my reflection.
Poised on the edge of my seat, eyes wide, fingers tapping...
And with a shrug, I force a smile and tell myself, You, my dear, are too dramatic.