Easter Sunday, I saw an older woman, maybe sixties, leaving a church near our house. She was wearing--I don't know, five inch heels? Longer than these, and staggering along, hanging on her husband's arm. As a good mother, I felt I had to point her out to my daughter with appropriate amusement. "A slave to fashion," I said. "Why would anybody wear something they can't walk in?"
Yesterday, I saw a young man of color struggling to walk with his pants around his knees. The young man in this photo seems able to take steps. The guy I saw, like many, could only shuffle before his pants stopped his stride. And God forbid he should have to run. He'd fall flat on his face.
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| Not me, not my era, but, yup, I can relate. |
But I know that I am superior to neither of these fashion slaves, for I once wore my skirts so short and my hair so long that I could not get a drink at the school fountain without assistance from a friend.
(Think of it: one hand to hold skirt down, one to hold hair out of face--which one is left to push the fountain's button? At least one reason why girls of that age travel in packs.)
One way or another, one time or another, the desire to be cool catches
us all.
So, I smile and enjoy a moment's memory of my own silliness. Lord, what fools these mortals be!
Yup.
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