Dirty Little Secret #43

I wore these shoes last night.

Dirk took one look at me and declared that we'd be in the emergency room with a broken ankle by the end of the evening.

My parents were standards on the invitation list for the philanthropic cicuit in our small city. My mother is still invited to these events and Mr. and Mrs. Chicken were her favored companions. We've replaced them, and I find I am lacking the proper wardrobe.

It used to be very exciting to attend dinners and auctions and black-tie events. Now? Not so much. By the end of the day I find it difficult to muster the energy to put on stockings and high-heeled shoes. Most of my formal-wear has been farmed out to consignment stores by this point, and I no longer own a horde of black sheer stockings. My only pair of black high heels were purchased to match the black suit worn to my father's funeral.

Because I was caught up in sewing and dance class and naptime, I called my mom in a panic. "Do you have any black closed-toe pumps?" She did not and so ran to Marshalls to pick out a pair on my behalf. She arrived at 6 pm to escort us to the wine tasting and auction and handed me three boxes of shoes. I chose the highest heels, and Dirk made his dire prediction.

But I did alright. We tasted wine. We ate cheese. We bid on a new chemotherapy chair for the local cancer center. It will bear my father's name.

We did alright.