I don’t mind falling temperatures this time of year, but my crampy toes beg to differ.
“We’re freezing down here. Lose the sandals!” they whine. “Time for fuzzy-wuzzy slippers!”
This wasn’t always the case. My warm-blooded siblings and I zipped around the house in our bare feet summer and winter, donning shoes and socks only when our shivering mother, using typical Mom logic, complained, “You’re making me cold!”
Slippers? Too spendy for a big family with a small income.
I read in a storybook that ragged Cinderella gained a prince, a kingdom and a pretty ball gown, all because her slippers fit. But my chances to share her magic looked grim, even if a fairy godmother showed up at our door bearing a free pair in my size. My mother would never allow me to run around in glass slippers. At that point, she wouldn’t even permit me to dry glass dishes.
The fuzzy slippers my friends received for Christmas from grandmas and grandpas caught my attention: brown puppies for boys and pink kitties for girls. An elite few boasted cowboy or cowgirl slippers, just like Roy Rogers and Dale Evans.
By the time I grew old enough to make my dreams come true using hard-earned babysitting cash, I craved white go-go boots instead. Fuzzy pink kitty slippers no longer appeared on my gotta-have list.
College dorm-mates, however, made poufy slippers a priority — although they favored Disney characters and yellow smiley faces. Serious-minded and penny-pinching, I found their frivolous fetish difficult to understand. During those early feminist days, we eschewed evil pink aprons, hair spray and anything else that threatened our position as free, mature women. We had declared war on any and all fluffy mindsets. So why didn’t my ideological sisters reject the corresponding footwear?
I refused to bow to such mindless leanings. Besides, I couldn’t find Minnie Mouse slippers in size 10.
A few years later, my new husband and I made many marital adjustments. However, we discovered common ground in dealing with crucial slipper issues. I grabbed 80-percent markdowns. He continued to wear the leather moccasins his grandparents gave him during high school. (I finally sneaked them out of the house and burned them.)
But slipper dreams refused to die. Spurred on by my childhood cravings, I bought colorful Strawberry Shortcake and Ninja Turtles slippers that matched our children’s PJs. They preferred plastic rain boots.
Fast-forward a few decades. When my roommate at a writers’ retreat organized a Goofy Slippers Day, my heart and toes warmed to the idea. But I owned only sensible cheapos and nice argyles my daughter knitted for me — nothing of sufficient bad taste. I perused secondhand and discount stores. Where would I find the slippers of my dreams — in my size?
I had almost had given up hope when, at the last store on my list, I encountered plastic ooh-la-la eyes and a smirky, whiskered grin. I pulled huge, fluffy pink kitty slippers from the pile. A perfect size 11 (my feet — like other parts of my anatomy — have spread).
It was a sign from God.
I named the right slipper Zsa Zsa and the left Eva. They made a hit at my writing get-together. Not so with Hubby, who rated them only slightly above an ancient, ratty housecoat that still gives him nightmares.
But my warm, grateful toes adored Zsa Zsa and Eva. So did my grandkids, until they (the slippers, not the children) fell apart.
If Cinderella had offered me her glass slippers in exchange, she would have been out of luck.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Do you own a favorite pair of slippers?