This is the outfit I wore to work today.
I knew from the start there was just bound to be a wardrobe malfunction.
Basically, I was fully anticipating ripping the seam out of my pencil skirt at some point during my eight-hour stint at the office.
Why? Because the fabric of the skirt could barely stretch across my recently expanded behind, of course. Gaining sixteen pounds will do that to you.
Which reminds me–I’m no longer referring to it as “gaining sixteen pounds”. I’ve simply transformed from Betty Draper to Joan Holloway…it sounds much more glamorous, that way.
Anyway…I was convinced there was a fifty-fifty chance of my lower half busting through the confines of my pencil skirt in an act of rebellion. (My hips haven’t had carbs in a few days and are starting to grow pissy.)
Little did I know, my shoes would turn out to be today’s problematic piece of fashion.
As I’ve grown older, my tolerance for the heels that are high has decreased significantly. Currently, I max out at 3.5 inches. This has been quite challenging as the latest trend is platforms in the 4 to 6 inches range. I double dog dare you to go to Nordstrom and find a nude pump that is under four inches, but above two inches. You won’t be able to do it.
I would know, as a few months ago, I was forced to settle for a pair of patent nude heels from the Promise Land that were exactly four inches. I figured, only being a half-inch taller than my normal limit, I’d be able to handle them. Plus, the two inchers looked like something Suri Cruise would wear and…well…no.
After a full day of wear, Scott dragged me to Best Buy to pick up something for the iPad. After growing weary of waiting for me to limp along behind him, he pointed out that I was hobbling like a ninety-year old woman with rheumatoid arthritis.
Ladies — this is a very important lesson. I don’t care how cute your shoes are…if you’re unable to walk in them, they are not cute.
Long story short, I’ve been buying my heels at Payless.
Not because they’re cheap.
Not because they have BOGO.
Not even because an old boyfriend I like to stalk happens to work there.
I frequent the shoe store whose very name goes against everything I stand for because they offer heels in the three-inch range that just happen to be comfortable. What a concept.
Unfortunately, as I learned the hard way today, they are not made of breathable materials.
I was sitting in a 2:00 meeting, and needed to stretch out my tootsies. As my feet were concealed under a massive conference table, I deemed it appropriate to carefully slip my heels out the back of the pumps, and wiggle my toes for a few seconds to get the blood flowing.
This was the point where I made the stink face.
It’s exactly like the stink eye, just with your entire face.
So, why did I make the stink face?
Because it quite literally smelled as if a giant panda bear made of blue cheese and vinegar had entered the room and started twirling.
I quickly slipped my feet back into my $19.99 specials and prayed no one had noticed. (I asked a friend later…they hadn’t.)
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: while I have many physical features that are less than appealing, stinky feet is not one of them. Even after a ninety- minute run, my little piggies smell fresh as a daisy. Sure, they’re often times covered in callouses, and I’ve been getting a little bit lazy with the pedicures, but all jokes aside my feet do not smell. Ever.
Unless they are trapped for hours in a cheap pair of kicks that may actually be the world’s only knock-off of a Mossimo for Target design.
Fast forward five hours, to a Maundy Thursday church service.
Maundy Thursday falls on the Thursday before Easter, and honors the Last Supper and Holy Communion.
Because the first ever communion took place at the Last Supper, Maundy Thursday places a great deal of emphasis on absolution and pardon from sin. I was delighted to return to my old church in Ballard and be reunited with my church family on such a special evening.
The pastor gave a beautiful homily on forgiveness.
And then it was time to wash each other’s feet.
At the Last Supper, Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, then encouraged them to do the same for each other. It has since become a Christian tradition symbolizing sacrificial love.
Let’s just say washing my feet would have definitely involved sacrificial love.
This was extremely frustrating to me. The foot washing was optional, and at last year’s service I didn’t have the courage to walk up to the altar and take part. This was largely due to the fact that I had also chosen to wear lace up boots that were not worth untying…even for a free foot massage.
This year, I was bound and determined to walk up to the giant clay bowls, and give my feet a nice long Lutheran soak.
And then I remembered the smell.
The whole point of the service was forgiveness. And while I’m sure Jesus would have forgiven me for the blue cheese panda feet, I’m not so sure our pastor would have.
So, for the second year in a row, I sat on the sidelines while everyone else received their holy pedicures.
Sometimes life just isn’t fair.
I returned to my sister’s apartment, dejected, and immediately kicked off my shoes. I wanted to be alone with my stench. To suffer the consequences of cheating on the Nordstrom shoe department. To wallow in my nastiness.
But there was no smell…?
Upon closer examination (read: holding my foot up to my nose like a chimpanzee) I realized my feet smelled like…baby powder?
The foot to nostril action was the last straw — my hips finally busted free from the rigid constraints of my size 6 pencil skirt, which means a trip to the seamstress is in order.
I’ve found comfort in believing that this is totally something that would happen to Joan Holloway. She probably would have done it while engaging in some monkey business with Roger Sterling as opposed to smelling her own feet…but it’s kind of the same, right?
Back to the matter at hand. What removed the mysterious odor from my cheaply dressed feet?
After two hours of analysis, I’ve realized there can only be one solution.
In a true Maundy Thursday miracle, Jesus washed my feet without me taking my shoes off.
I think it’s his way of telling me that he’ll forgive me, just this once, for shopping at Payless.
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