It’s that time of year. The toes come out.
I saw a picture of my sister from a restaurant review in another state. It was a candid newspaper photo, she was a friend of the owner and a fan of the eatery.
What caught my eye served as a reminder. She was the glamorous sister.
Casual outfit, hair pulled back, freckled face, huge smile.
And there it was. She was wearing sandals, and her red toe nails matched her lipstick.
It was a signature look that she has sported for a lifetime.
It is not my style now, and never was.
I am a bit clumsy. I could never wear flip-flops, or open-toed sandals.
I trip a lot.
You know those raised sidewalk seams ? They are there to torture me.
As recently as a year ago, after a lovely Mother’s Day dinner, I walked with my two adult children to a neighborhood park. Distracted by a lively conversation, I tripped and fell.
Bruised knee. Flesh wound.
I was one block from my home. This sidewalk gap had already caught me a few times, and I knew it was there. Still.
My daughter pointed out that she learned to walk properly in marching band. That’s a bit funny, because I was there when she was 14 months old, and I don’t remember the band.
But, she was right to repeat to me, over the years. “Walk heel to toe, Mom, heel to toe”.
Until I master that one, I’ll remain in supportive shoes.
And I’ll admire the pedicure. But it’s really lost on me.