... your shoe size increases. For decades, I wore a 7B. Reliable. Foolproof. When ordered through a catalogue or QVC, I never had to return them. But now ... ! I'm up to 7 and a half, uh, C, sometimes 8, depending on the shoe. Yes, ladies, let's face it, the feet spread along with the hips and thighs. Also, there's menopause and its lovely symptoms, one of which is the waning and waxing (and I'm not referring to hair removal) of various parts of the body, including feet. One never knows on any given day just how much one's feet will swell.
... your shoe wardrobe shrinks. Granted, I was never the shoe fanatic so many women seem to be. I don't think I ever owned more than twenty pairs of shoes at once. Ever, honest. Then as a religious, I was allowed only one pair of closed shoes (black), one pair of sandals (black), one pair of gardening shoes (preferably black), and one pair of slippers (any color). Of course, wearing the same outfit every day helped. Ever wonder why nuns' shoes are so—orthopedic? It's because nuns spend so much time on their feet, working, walking, cleaning; and the floors of modern monasteries are often linoleum tile over concrete. Ouch. That'll give you heel spurs, for sure. But even before I entered, my foot health began to decline and I had to give up wearing heels. My shoe wardrobe eventually consisted mainly of Clarks clogs and sandals. I think I had eight pairs of Clarks clogs. Great shoes, those. Did wonders toward relieving my heel spurs and plantar fasciitis. And now I have also discovered crocs, the shoe choice of surgeons and nurses and other people who spend much of their time on their feet. Not that I spend a lot of time on my feet now. But they are great for grocery shopping and other activities that involve much walking/standing on unforgiving concrete floors.
... your life is "their" nostalgia. I look at what young people are wearing these past five or ten years, and I think, "I should have saved all my clothes from junior high and high school and sold them on eBay; I'd have made a fortune." Low-riders? We called them "hip-huggers." Boot cut? We called them "flares." (No, not "bell bottoms"; those were a different shape altogether.) Those clingy knit tops they wear over collared shirts? We wore that look in the eighth grade. Those wide leather belts with the metal-rimmed holes? Ditto. Platform shoes and big wedgies? Double ditto. A fortune, I tell you, I coulda made. Coulda-woulda-shoulda!
And that's just fashion. Don't get me started on the other stuff. But you know the ultimate sure-fire way to know you're middle-aged? When you start writing stuff like this.
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