If the Shoe Fits...

I love shoes.  To those who know me even the slightest bit, this doesn’t come as any surprise.  To those who know me very well, I think they’ll consider my declaration of love to be a bit of an understatement.

Legend has it that my adoration of fine footwear was born in Neiman Marcus when I was three years old.  The old story goes that my mother and I were strolling leisurely through the store when I stopped in my tracks in front of a display of little girl’s red patent Mary Janes.  I pointed at them and told my mother quite emphatically that I wanted those shoes.  When she told me that I couldn’t have them, this normally mild-mannered child turned into a maniacal temper tantrum thrower. 

While I do not know if that’s exactly when my shoe fetish came to be, I do know that, to this day, I have a special affection for red patent shoes.  Over the years, my collection has never failed to include at least one pair.

Unfortunately, even though I try to be neat and organized, my shoes sometimes overrun our closet and annoy my husband.  For some reason, he doesn’t like tripping over my pumps when he’s trying to get ready in the morning.  So last year he tried to lay down the law with me.  He pulled out a pair of shoes that I’ve had since college and told me that, until I wore them out, I could not buy another pair.  I just looked at him in all of his proud take-a-stand glory and said, “Okay.”  He looked surprisingly shocked at my acquiescence and seemed very satisfied with himself.

Here’s the problem.  He’s married to an attorney.  After making his stern admonition that I was not to buy any other shoes until I wore out the ones he showed me, I simply put them on and walked out the front door.  I went out to the mailbox, came back in the house, took off the shoes, put them back in the closet, and announced I would now be buying another pair very soon.  He looked confused.  Then he realized he had been “lawyered.”   While he intended his statement to mean that I had to wear the shoes until the soles had worn thin, I interpreted his statement to mean that I simply had to go somewhere in them and then I would be free to add to my collection. 

I can’t imagine why he so cruelly targeted this particular pair of shoes to be banished from my collection.  They originally served at the foundation for my “Delight” Halloween costume in college and they have since graced the dance floor on more than one 80’s night.  Who knows, maybe they’ll even be back in mainstream style sometime in the near future.  This Spring’s fashion is all about color, right?!  I wouldn’t want to risk disposing of them only to find out my vintage shoes are the hottest new trend, would I?

Thankfully this attempted coup against my shoe collection was short-lived.  My husband decided to leave well enough alone and to suffer for fashion in silence... and he's accepted that he may have married an Imelda Marcos in the making.   As long as I don't negatively impact our plans to retire someday, I think he will reluctantly support this vice of mine.  His main goal is to not be the old man who lived in a shoe.

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A Hoot and a Holler

Today I found myself once again wading into uncharted waters.  I attended a "laughter yoga" class with a friend of mine and her daughter.  The idea behind laughter yoga is that laughter is good for your health and spiritual wellness.  The deep belly laughs are supposed to massage your organs and push all the stale air out of your lungs.  There have been well-documented studies about the benefits of laughter for people suffering from illness.  One study was about a man who suffered from a very painful disorder and 10 minutes of laughter per day would give him two pain free hours.  Personally, I was just looking for some stress relief.

All in all, it was pretty humorous, but it was not exactly what I expected.  Aside from the breathing exercises, the "yoga" part was lost on me.  There were no poses or transitions.  I probably should have realized that yoga would take a backseat to the laughter when the instructor questioned why I brought my yoga mat with me.  It was basically just a lot of ho-ho-hoing like Santa while trying not to be very self-conscious about the passersby looking through the glass in the door to see why everyone in our studio was engaged in some kind of collective mental breakdown.  I can only imagine what they must have thought!

Despite feeling self-conscious and not quite genuine about the laughter exercises, one theory was proven without a doubt today: laughter is indeed contagious.  After going through these various exercises, inevitably my classmates and I would break into actual spontaneous laughter and it would spread like wildfire.  Most of the time it was laughing from embarrassment, but it was laughter nonetheless and that was the point of it all.  I did feel better when I left the class, but I don't think I'll be a regular. 

So I hope I've given you a laugh.  From trapeze to body painting championships to laughter yoga, it's never a dull moment.   We'll just have to wait and see what next week brings.

One Coat or Two?

When you make bold statements such as "I love adventure," you better be prepared for someone to call you on it.  It happened to me a few weeks ago when my friends Brenda and Mimi threw down the gauntlet and invited me to attend the North American Body Painting Championships this weekend.  My first question was whether they wanted me to go as an observer or a participant.  I love a good adventure, but I don't claim to be an artist and I certainly wasn't willing to serve as the canvas.  I could probably paint a mean set of cat's whiskers on your cheeks or perhaps a couple of balloons, but one glance at the NABPC website and I knew I would be way out of my league.  Painting like a kindergartner and modesty would get you nowhere in this art world.

I am fairly certain Brenda and Mimi thought I would chicken out at the last minute, but yesterday finally arrived and the three of us went to a hotel in downtown to see what this other slice of life was all about.  Upon paying my entrance fee, I made my first observation:  I was incredibly disappointed that the woman working at the ticket counter didn't paint my wristband on me.  She just strapped a plastic band around my arm.  I had arrived at the supposed pinnacle of the body art world and this woman couldn't even be bothered to doodle a little band around my wrist?

Setting my disappointment aside, Brenda, Mimi and I headed into the ballroom to observe the final hour of the competitors finishing up their works of art to be judged by a panel of "experts" in body painting.  My second observation: I was the only one there wearing a turtleneck not made of acrylic paint.  There was actually a woman wearing a tuxedo that had been painted on her.  I didn't realize this was a black tie event, so you can imagine my embarrassment at being underdressed (or overdressed as it were).

The artists had six hours to complete their competition piece for the judges.  My third observation: The models must have been very in touch with their "nothing boxes," because they had to stand still for six hours while someone slathered them in a coat of paint.  I would never be cut out for that.  My mind would never slow down enough for me to be completely inert for six hours.  The "canvasses" couldn't sit down or lower their arms to their sides for fear of messing up the artwork.  You could definitely see that some of the models were starting to wear thin toward the end of the six hour stint.

All in all, it was kind of fascinating to observe this competition.  While some of the end results were far too odd for my taste, there was no doubt these people were talented.  They took the human form and transformed it into something otherworldly.  Here was my favorite:

So you can consider this adventure officially checked off my list (and I didn't even know until two weeks ago that it was on my list).  Brenda, Mimi and I all agreed that we were glad we went to see this unusual art exhibition, but we also decided that making this an annual event was not in the cards for us.  And you can also rest easy that I won't be calling upon you to let me hone my painting skills for next year's competition.

Farewell, My Friend

One of the biggest adventures of my life was being an exchange student for a year in Germany.  When I was 16 years old, I boarded a plane and flew off to Deutschland to live in a beautiful little village just north of the Alps.  There are many, many stories to tell about that year and all that it meant to me, but the purpose of today's post is to pay respects to a great man I met during that glorious, fun-filled time of my life.

My heart is very heavy after finding out that Paul, the father of one of my dear friends, died on Saturday.  Unfortunately, he passed away very suddenly and without warning, and I am sure his family is still in shock that he's gone. 

I cannot think of that year in Germany and all of the visits since without thinking of Paul and his lovely wife, Annemarie.  He and I first met when I started dating his son.  At the time, I was still learning German and Paul did not speak English, so I am fairly certain he did not understand 90% of what I said.  Nonetheless, each time I saw him, he greeted me warmly with a smile.  Over the course of that year, I learned the language and he and I got along royally.  He was a large, strapping, hard-working man with the rosiest cheeks you've ever seen.  To me, he was the quintessential Bavarian.

Although I am sure the last thing Paul wanted to do was to go shopping with me, one of my favorite memories of him is the day he and Annemarie took me to Munich to buy me a Dirndl - a traditional Bavarian dress.  They were convinced (or at least Annemarie was) that I could not leave Germany without having one by which to remember them.  Paul drove us into the city and we made our way through countless shops until we found just the right Dirndl.  I never heard Paul complain a bit.  He just quietly made his way to the nearest chair in each store and waited patiently until Annemarie and I were ready to head to the next one.

After we found just the right outfit to transform me into a bonafide Bavarian girl, we headed back to their beautiful home where he promptly changed into his Lederhosen and Annemarie put on her own Dirndl.  We then headed to their backyard, where we had our picture taken together with their Swiss Mountain Dog, Arco.  The three of us and the dog looked like extras from the "Sound of Music."

Over the course of the past twenty plus years, I have had the opportunity to visit Paul and Annemarie several times.  A trip to Germany has never failed to include spending some time with them eating a slice of cake baked by Annemarie.  Even my husband had the pleasure of meeting Paul a couple of times.  And, though neither one of them spoke the other's language, my husband took quite a liking to Paul.  He, too, saw the kindness in his eyes and smile.

Paul leaves behind a wife, son, daughter-in-law, two granddaughters, and countless family and friends, who I am certain will miss him immensely.  I know I will.  I am so thankful that I had the honor of getting to know this wonderful man and to call him my friend.  My German adventures would not have been complete without the memories of spending time with him learning how to be a true Bavarian.

My "German Mom" sent me Paul's obituary this morning and I think the first line of it says it all: "Aus der Lieben Kreis geschieden, aus den Herzen aber nie, weint nicht, er ruht in Frieden, doch für uns starb er zu früh."  Translated: Out of the loving circle separated, but never out of our hearts, do not cry, he rests in peace, but for us he died too soon.