If the shoe fits

One of my most unfortunate traits is that I think I can solve the world's problems on the drive from Glenburn to Orono, or Bangor to Veazie.  Complicated issues might require something longer, like the the drive to camp in Dover, but you get the idea.  So please, bear with me on this one.

During the financial collapse of 2006 I became acutely aware of all the storage facilities that had popped up on the rural American landscape.  The normally pastoral drive down Forest Ave. between Glenburn and Orono was interrupted by a hulking steel U Store It type facility.  I am not going to lie, these squat, utilitarian buildings offend my aesthetic as well as my philosophy, and their proliferation is more than I can stand.  You can hardly drive for more than 10 minutes without passing one on the roadside.  Their signs boast more amenities that any apartment I have ever lived in: climate controlled, 24 hour video survaillance, keyless entry, drive-in access.  The list goes on I assure you.

It began to occur to me that perhaps part of the reason we are where we are, is our obsession with stuff: its aquisation as well as its maintenance.  As a nation, we are crippled by credit card debt, mortgage debt, educational debt, business debt.  Sadly, our ever inflating McMasions can't hold all that we have aquired even though we keep increasing square footage.

So when we were nominated for the Family Business Award and I needed something swanky to wear to the reception, I was forced to face my demon: the racks, shelves and boxes of clothing, shoes, and accessories stored in my parents' garage.  Sure my treasures of years gone by are stored in a garage built to look like a 100 year old red barn, but the truth is still the truth: This is stuff I haven't touched in 2 years.

We put it in my parents' garage 2 years ago, just for a couple months while we renovated the store and our living space above it.  And I left it up there because I was pregnant with Grant and the clothes didn't fit.  Then I waited because, well, after Grant was born, they still don't fit.  They may never fit.  And even if they do, they might be vintage by the time I get back into them.  This is not an article about my ever changing form though.  This is an article about my shoes.

I quickly and rightly rebuffed my mother's suggestion that I shop the racks up there for something to wear.  However, once I had my new outfit, I was happy to have an excuse to dig out my Pucci print kitten heels to wear.  As I didn't have time to get over there and find them myself, I tasked my ever-willing parents to find them.

When they met me outside the venue to hand over my shoes, my mom eagerly told me that they hadn't found just these shoes, but that she had pulled out ALL my shoes and would BRING THEM OVER.  I'm not gonna lie.  I had a hard time breathing.  I don't have space physically or psychologically for all those shoes.

They don't fit in my living space and they don't fit who this incarnation of Betsy.  Am I really going to wear 3 inch heels with my 27.5lb 11 month old riding Boba on my back?  Probably not.  And yet, I want them there.  I am having a hard time letting go of the money I spent on the shoes and the Betsy I was when I wore them.

In parenting, as in much of life, you can't hold onto what you actually want to hold onto: the joyful moments.  So what you hold onto is the stuff associated with them: shoes, baby clothes, a hair cut, and it ends up being the baggage that holds you down and keeps you from growing.

The upshot of all this is that while I am still working on my new style, lifestyle and fashion style,  I did rescue a few pairs of shoes that still fit the new me...