What is wrong with me?
I returned less than a week ago from the most fantabulous conference ever.
It was positive.
It was energetic.
It was inspiring.
It was exhausting.
Now I’m reading on Facebook how everyone is sick with something they caught from patient zero and fear that I may have succumbed to the illness.
I’m not sure what the symptoms experienced by the other attendees are, but mine are incontrovertible.
I have been receiving three to four e-mails a day advertising gorgeous heels and I don’t even care. I don’t look. I’m not curious. I simply open my e-mail program, click on the e-mail and hit delete.
I’ve been afraid of this day and have lived in fear for the past two years. My desire to open these e-mail temptations has been dwindling day by day.
I don’t think it has anything to do with lack of funding. That has never stopped me as long as I have plastic in my purse.
I don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that I have sixty-three pair of perfectly good and cute heels in my closet. I still have two closets that aren’t full.
It’s not that I don’t like pretty shoes. Or heels. Or that I have forgotten how to walk in them.
Nay. This is something much more nefarious.
I am shaking and sick over the notion that it could be the “O” word, and I don’t mean obsessive, ostentatious, offensive, or even orgasmic. It’s the other “O” word that has me in a nightmare inducing dither.
It’s beyond horrible to the point that I’m not sure I can say it, and I’m quite sure I’m not able to write it. I’m too young to be even close to the word.
I still have things to do.
I still have money to spend.
I still have words to write.
I haven’t depleted my children’s inheritance.
Or been to Venice.
In fear of this “O” thing I decided to prove to myself that it’s a mistake.
I got out my beautiful pair of thigh high black stockings and gently pulled them up over my knees where they nestled against my thighs. I dug out the black skirt with the slit up the side and smoothed it over my body. A red blouse cut low went on next. To complete the test I put on my red 4” heels.
I looked in the mirror and smiled. I was not near the “O” word.
I still have it or at least I do when I haven’t misplaced it.
I grabbed my purse and headed out to work.
It’s now been three hours I’ve spent on the proving ground and I’m still alive.
My back, where I had the surgery, hurts a bit. I did trip this morning over the branches blown down in the storm last night. I also had to send in an injury form at work from falling in the hall. I’m sure there was something slippery on the floor where an inconsiderate fool spilled something and didn’t bother to clean it up. Either that or the pieces of ice from my cup got under my feet. The stockings are now in the trash. They tore when my knees cleaned the floor after that last fall. The chiropractor has an opening at four o’clock. I’ll be there ten minutes early to record what happened today.
But it’s all good. I’m still in the heels, no one noticed that the slit in the side of the skirt is longer than it was this morning, and I can hide the bruises with my jacket.
To hell with the “O” word. I’ve still got it.
From the life and mind of Wanda M. Argersinger
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