You Can’t Judge a Shoe By It’s Box

April 20, 2011 § Leave a comment

Confession: I live like a college student. Sometimes I eat cheese-its for dinner and I wouldn’t exactly call the space: decorated. But I pay my bills on time and wouldn’t show up to work drunk or in pajamas, so I guess I’m halfway there. I do live alone, which was a huge step and double the financial billing. I had to, for sanity. I was living with 3 boys, 2 girls, and 1 bathroom. Now alone in my big girl apartment, I can do whatever I want.

Dance party of one, naked craft time, midnight munchies, and embarrassing reality show marathons. It’s my lair. Last spring I wouldn’t even leave my apartment on most weekends. Although, I love it, it’s a shoebox. Nothing matches, the couch is orange, it’s hard to make that work.  Most of the time it’s messy, although I try not to let laundry creep into the kitchen. There is never anything in the fridge, not like I have the flatware to put it on. I’m at max capacity and there is no room in the budget for a bigger place. Actually, it’s more of a boot box. My studio is civilized, the bed isn’t next to the fridge, so it’s more of a box for knee highs, flats not hooker.

Like most modern gals, I like to pay my way. I enjoy the independence, I don’t need a man to take care of me. I scoff at that. A fish without a bicycle, right? I mean, he has to have aspirations and a willingness to contribute, but his bank account doesn’t have to swallow my life style. I was surprised to find that Mister Red, son of physicians, truly did live in a shoebox. And not even one belonging to platforms or pumps, but more of something to fit ballet slippers or flops. He’s got a dorm room, but you have to hand it to him, he lives alone, he pays his way. The man is being a man, no handouts, no short cuts. His balls are as big as mine, and I admire his ambition and determination. I’m sure the shoebox isn’t forever.

That’s the thing about living in a metropolitan area in your late 20s while working in an industry with no ladder, you’re life fits into a box. I’m more or less poor, an upper middle class girl, college educated, cutting corners living in the city trying to make something of myself. Working on the day job for the paycheck, working on the dream job for lifelong livelihood. I can’t tell you how hard I’m working to move out of this particular box my life is stuffed into. To move out of the boot box and maybe into a hat box, or something a fur coat would come in, or long stem roses.

As for Mister Red, I’m not one to assume about a shoe before I try it on. I don’t know where it pinches or if it will give me blisters. Or maybe it will be one of my favorites that I will wear for years and years taking it to the cobbler to be reheeled, resoled, weatherproofed. You certainly can’t judge a shoe by the box, I wouldn’t want someone to do that to me, and I am certainly not going to do that to Mister Red.


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