by the lamplight

I've bought at least four dresses this summer. Two hats. A pair of shoes. A watch. Books. Many books. Spent $875 to receive a free copy of the 16th edition of the Chicago Manual of Style. And yet toilet paper feels like an extravagance. I walk into the bathroom, count out two squares and fretfully blow my nose. The roll is worn very thin and I only have three rolls left and I really ought to reduce my spending, tighten my belt (I could use a new belt), watch my pennies. I hardly feel a twinge of guilt when I purchase a new dress, but toilet paper--and trash bags--feel like luxuries too precious to afford.

It's nearly eleven o'clock when I write this. I know I should sleep soon but my chest hurts (again) and that worries and frightens me so much that I no longer feel tired. Neither can I write. I have nothing to say. The thought occurs to me that if I should die before I wake I will never have to worry about toilet paper ever again. This does not comfort me as much as I would like. It does make me laugh a little. I know I am being extremely silly. I just don't know how to stop. I keep the lamp on until I fall asleep. I'm not sure what it is I think this will do, what kind of help it will offer, but at midnight it just Makes Sense. In the morning I wake to the sound of rain and a meowing Cat and I am okay.

Wardrobe: Shoes

Dear inhabitants of Chicago summer,

Flip-flops are unlovely. Fwap, fwap, fwap, fwap is not an elegant sound-accompaniment for a life. How can one think of someone who fwaps everywhere as beautiful and stylish?

No. No, darling summer-people. They are all wrong. You are all wrong.

Your shoes should support you, should cushion your whole body from the assault of asphalt. They should help you to stand tall and with enviable posture. How can you prepare a life--your life--when your toes are splayed, when your arches sag, when your ankles roll, your back sinks and your shoulders droop?

Your shoes should make walking a pleasure and should help to guide your every step. Your gait should be smooth and should feel effortless. You may dance to the beat of the drummer of your choosing, but there should be some rhythm in your step.

While my blog sleeps, I will creep into her room and steal away all of her offending shoes. On tip-tip-tip-toe, I glide, gathering up all this junk food for the sole(s) in several armsful. I order them banned throughout the kingdom. When she awakes, there will not even exist a word for these fwapping offenders. In her closet will be sturdy and lovely shoes that will cradle, cushion and comfort. In them, she will walk like a queen. Even in the simplest of clothes, she will appear fully, impeccably dressed.