In My Shoes

It was two weeks ago when dad texted me from Spain, triumphant that he was clasping in his hands a pair of shoes that he just knew belonged to me. "They're purple," read the last sentence of his SMS.

I don't think I realized how vibrant the hue was until I opened the motionless package atop my desk the other day. The shoes were practically iridescent. Screaming and not shy. Brash and unashamed.

For over 40 years, members of my family have been gifting me with the most animated articles of clothing they can find, assuring me that my personality can get away with such fashion. And so sometime in my life I've owned snake skin boat shoes, an aqua fanny pack, a wooden necktie, a belt of skull prints, polka-dotted socks...the list is endless.

I guess what surprises me is how I, the shiest member of the family, am perceived to have the most flamboyant sense of style. But they're absolutely right. I can strut the stuff they dish out to me without batting an eyelash, as if on a dare with the stakes so high. Trouble is, I don't know if I can still manage to carry the look in this day and age. After all, I'm no David Arquette.

But yesterday, I put on my spanking new shoes. And they felt quite good.