Love Affair

October 22, 2009

As a child, I remember watching “The Elves & The Shoemaker” over and over again, each time more mesmerized than the last. Not by the story, but by the shoes- the beautiful, intricately crafted shoes. Through my 5-year-old eyes, they were magic. Thus began my love affair with footwear.

 

Growing up, my grandmother used to scold me because I’d often stare down while walking. She thought it a product of low self-esteem. In truth, I was only staring at people’s shoes, scrutinizing the ones I’d wear myself. While everybody else was busy people-watching, I kept my head down and “shoe-watched”. Occasionally, a pair would stand out, and I’d look up to check out the person in them. I especially looked forward to the Communion lines that would form at Church. I’d sit by the stairs and amuse myself by watching the parade of footwear. I still do sometimes. So, yes, that freak staring at your feet last Sunday was probably me.

 

This habit carried on as I became a teenager and started showing interest in the opposite sex. My initial basis for eligibility wouldn’t be the smile or the clothes. It’d be (what else) the shoes. Only when this criterion was met would I look up and nurse my interest in that particular boy.

                                                                                            

I don’t precisely know why, maybe because it puts me at ease to be able to get a read on someone’s personality by his/her choice of footwear. One of my friends for instance, went through a phase of wearing aqua shoes everywhere he went. One doesn’t need a psychology degree to deduce that he’s not one to follow societal norms. Despite my constant ribbing, he refused to give in, claiming comfort over fashion. And I say phase because he wore them to the ground, and he hasn’t been (hopefully never will be) able to find a suitable replacement. Oh well, I guess they suit his quirky, practical personality. I kind of miss them actually.

 

I used to go out with this guy who wore Chuck Taylors all the time. I liked that, he was pretty laid back, kind of happy-go-lucky. Then I noticed he wore them everywhere, for months. Was that because he only had a one track mind? (Hahaha) Well, he eventually started wearing other pairs, along with revealing his true colors. Another guy used to flaunt his Banana Republic and Ralph Lauren loafers. He once influenced me to wear Italian snakeskin wedges (that would probably cripple me later in life) and my mom’s Louis bag for a date at the mall. I was fifteen. I should’ve known better.

 

I on the other hand, prefer to exhibit my multi-faceted personality (known in lesser terms as my scatterbrained-ness) by wearing all kinds of shoes. There is no particular style that defines me. I’m an espadrille-wearing, sneaker-sporting, stiletto-pumping, cowboy boot-lover in mismatched flip flops. Either that, or I just don’t want to be pigeonholed as a certain type. I’m not exactly sure yet. I just like to experiment. When I’m feeling creative, I’ll resurrect my sister’s 4-year old flats and embellish them back to life. Sometimes I’ll wear 5-inch killer heels that’ll definitely maim not only me but innocent bystanders as well. Oh well, like everything else, it’s a learning process. Sometimes slow, sometimes painful.

 

After all this meandering thought, I’ve come to this conclusion: Shoes, like relationships come and go. But this love affair is not the shop-til-you-drop, Imeldific thousand-pumps-in-my-closet kind. I seek for the heart-stopping stand-outs that can only be found once in a while as a by-product of scrupulous expeditions. Tedious as this process may be, still, my never-ending, unfaltering adoration for these beautiful things will do just that: never end, never falter. :)

Ignoramus

October 4, 2009

How on earth can one approve comments? I only recently discovered I had a couple, and my obvious lack of technological skill once again proved detrimental to the potential advancement of my blog.

 

Being the lazy bug that I am, I can’t even bring myself to walk ten steps to the living room where the bag that contains my cellphone is, so I can call tech-savvy friends. Instead, I chose to log on to Facebook, in the hopes of finding my buddy-cum-idiots’ guide for technophobes and pester him for help. But rats, he’s not there. Ho hum.

 

I’m thinking of just maneuvering through the site myself, but I stopped at the thought, and discarded it as wishful thinking. I don’t stand a chance.

 

So I’ll just do what I think is best. Scream for Heeeeeeeelp!!!

Love Is My Hostage

October 1, 2009

What am I still doing here? It’s been days and I’ve been aching to go back home. I’m bored out of my skull. I can’t even write a decent blog. I’ve been cooking half-baked posts in my mind for the past two days. Earlier, I had an inspiration as I was browsing through lookbook.nu. I swear, some of those people are so freaking creative. What was my inspiration again? Wait, let me go get it from the back of my mind… umm… need for tan short boots, no… want red and yellow ankle boots, no… death by boredom, close but no… here it is: love as my hostage.

 

And… that’s all I got.

 

My mind is drier than a two week-old, half-sliced lemon left in the chiller for “preservation”. Hah. Really dry. Uga. 

 

How can love be my hostage? Seriously, what was running through my mind when I conjured that up? Looking at all those pictures must have left me yearning to wax poetic. I think the combination of those artsy photographs and the conversation I had with my college classmate on ym some how got wired into my brain. Aw hell. But how can I write about something that’s so surreal? What does that even mean? Webster defines the word hostage as “a prisoner who is held by one party to insure that another party will meet specified terms”. But who are the parties and what terms need to be met?? Aaaah.. let’s just go back to the conversation. I’m in no mood to talk in circles right now.

 

He said he’s been seeing me around, all by myself. And that he thought it a waste, that I was alone. Brave guy, but what the hey, it was only online. So, I felt the need to expound on my single wagon status yet again. Sigh. I am not lonely. Alone yes, but lonely, hells no. I told him that I “changed frequencies” where love (or the search for it) is concerned. I no longer desire plain old beautiful. Yep, standards have reached an all-time low here. That’s how some would view it anyway. So shouldn’t it be easier then?

 

Anyway, I just put it in terms he could grasp. And I quote: “I’m not interested in good-looking anymore. I’m not settling for anything less than a beautiful heart and soul.” Of course that was still a little too much to swallow, so he handled it by informing me that those guys (himself included) are all taken and that I’d have to wait for them to become widowers to get my chance. Oh joy. 

 

No, I’m not a puritan or a radical by any measure. I just choose to be with myself, for once in my life. Why play when you’re tired of the pretentious games? And no, there is no anger there, or anywhere in me for that matter. Nowadays, I find myself laughing more, playing more. I love love. Got plenty of it around me, and plenty in me to go around. But I’m keeping some of it in, to be “preserved” in my chiller. Haha.  For now, I’m choosing to tread along the road less traveled. Ü

 

…until the specified terms are met. Aack!

 

Well, there you go… I guess love is kind of my hostage. But it is definitely not my prisoner.Ü