Donna O'Donnell Figurski's Blog

It's All About Me!

Tidbits About Donna #25 Clunky-Chunky Easter Shoes

Being in Erie at Easter time reminded me of this sad but, true story. Okay it will probably sound funny to some of you, but to me, at the time, it was awful. I was a preteen – about twelve years old. I was still in grade school. Peer pressure ruled my life. And the hormones were kicking in, too. I’m sure they played a big part. I wanted to be grown up. After all I was almost a teenager.

Maybe These?

It was Saturday night. I had my Easter bonnet and my new Easter dress, but I really, intensely wanted – NO – needed heels – as in high heels to go with my new outfit. Then I’d be really cool. All the girls in my class were getting heels that year. That’s all we could talk about. It was almost a rite of passage – and I wanted to pass right along with them. If I didn’t get high heels, everyone would think I was a baby. I needed those high heels as much as I needed air to breathe. Any teenager could understand!

So I wheedled and pestered and begged and pleaded and finally I wore my mother down. That’s what kids do best – don’t they? She agreed to take me to the shoe store. It was in the Liberty Plaza in Erie, Pennsylvania, only about seven minutes from my house.  I was ecstatic. I was finally going to get my first pair of high-heeled shoes.

I tried on lots of heels. They were wonderful. At least they were to me. But my mother had other ideas. I ignored the frown on her face as I pointed to one shiny pair, ran my fingers over the smoothness of another, or thrust a gorgeous pair of two inch heels at her. Her head shook from side to side each time. “No, no, and no,” she said each time. Then she picked out shoes with barely any heel at all. They looked like baby shoes and I refused to try them on. I picked out shoes with narrow heels and strappy sandals and  teetered around the store on them. “I’ll get used to them,” I said. but, my mother, again,  said, “NO!”

I’m sure I rolled my eyes. All teenagers do that. It really aggravates the parentals, but no amount of eye-rolling helped. My mother was not going to allow her first daughter to grow up that Easter weekend. She refused every choice I made. What’s the matter with stilletos? I thought.

Of course, as the clock ticked on, patience wore thin for both my mother and me. I dug in. So did she. Time was running out.

Unfortunately my mother had the dollars in her pocketbook and I was at her mercy. Finally we left the store at about 8:15 PM. I was not carrying a shoe box.

Dear Old Granny Shoes

I refused to buy those clunky-chunky, white, pseudo-heeled Easter shoes that my mother loved. If she loved them so much why didn’t she buy them for herself? They looked like shoes my dear old granny would have worn in 1934. I would not – could not wear those shoes and still hold my head up. I’d be the laughing stock of the 7th grade. After all everyone would be in church – checking out each others’ outfits … and shoes. I’d rather go barefoot. We rode home in silence and I brushed tears from my eyes. Silently I vowed I would NEVER – EVER make my own daughter (when I had one) wear anything so awful.

At home my sister was happily prancing around the living room in her new white shoes. I was jealous. Of course, her shoes did not have a heel. She didn’t want one. She didn’t need them. She was only ten-years-old and this was not a crucial problem for her … yet. But it would be someday. W

Or these -- a more conservative pair

ait until she turns twelve.

It was 8:40 PM. In twenty minutes the shoe store doors would forever lock those clunky-chunky, pseudo-heeled Easter shoes in. My mother knew I was miserable and she offered to take me back. Reluctantly, I climbed in the car. I thought, maybe, I could still change her mind.

We dashed back the seven minutes to the store, parked and ran in. I had only three minutes to work a miracle. And though I desperately tried, I couldn’t and I didn’t. We bought the clunky-chunky, white, pseudo-heeled Easter shoes and I wore them to church the next morning feeling like my dear old granny. If I was the laughing stock of the seventh grade, I don’t remember, but I will never forget those shoes. They haunt me every time I walk into a shoe store.

P.S.

It’s not like I was being unreasonable. I was not asking for these. Though come to think of it. They are kind of cute.

(Clip Art compliments of Bing.com)

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April 11, 2010 - Posted by | Anything Writing, TidBits About Donna

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