If guys are like shoes, then I ought not to wonder why my heart’s on my foot.

(photo by Donovan Dennis of Deviantart)

According to my brother Victor, it is preferrable to finish the Sunday Edition of Manila Bulletin from cover to cover, develop lung cancer from burning two packs of Marlboro, and receive pointed looks from cafe crew because of overstaying, rather than follow a girl around the mall in search for the perfect pair of shoes.

"I never learn," muttered my brother, as he follows me inside a boutique. "What’s that again?" I asked rather abstractedly, as my eyes traveled from wall-to-wall arrays of round-toed pumps to pointed-toed slingbacks. This is nth shoe store we’ve visited and I still haven’t found the soulmates for my heels.

"I said that thing will do," he said pointing at a discounted pair near the cashier table. I looked at what he’s pointing and saw a pair of mid-thigh length purple velvet boots with dangly silver decorations at the top lining, "Are you crazy? Maybe it’ll work on tall people but it’ll screamed pimping MIDGET in big bold letters when I wear that!"

"Well, I haven’t seen you owning one like that before," he said. I rolled my eyes at him and said, "Same reason why you’d never see me owning a bling-bling guy".

"Like you could own a guy, you picky hag." he muttered.

"I heard that!" Sticking out my tongue at him. Having been unaware of my love affairs, it has been a standing joke in my family how I seem to be the one who’s going to inherit Lola Pining’s house… along with her spinsterhood status.

*snort*

I simply can’t see the point in introducing a guy to the family when I know that he’s going stay with me for just a wee bit longer than a bathroom break. And since I know that the folks (and the rest of my quirky clannish family) would instantly jump to the conclusion of seriousness once I introduce someone to them, I decided not to give them unnecessary excitement by parading every Tom, Dick, and Harry I tangled myself with. Hence, only Him that can last (in my company) longer than the power of Motolite battery would be the only candidate of choice.

Of course, finding Him is about as daunting a task as finding a hairpin in my messy room. That’s why I prefer not to sweat an armpit in finding someone I would offer my heart, soul, contact lens, and waxed legs to.

But lately, with one of my brothers asking for blessing in marriage, and another brother asking for blessing in moving out of the house, my folks focused their attention to me and demanded, "When is it going to be your turn?"

Normally, I’d just bear it with a grin but catching the predatorial glint in my mother’s eye, I knew I have to put an effort to find Him that could be THE ONE soon, lest she fixes me up with "that dear nice boy of my bestfriend in high school" which footnotes to "that bean pole with pipsqueak voice".

"How about this one?" Cutting my reverie, my brother picked out a pretty pink slippers adorned with beads and flowers. I shook my head. "That’s cute. But it looks gay."
"It’s soft, you know," he squeezed the pads on the heels, "Won’t hurt you."
"Yeah, but it still looks loud and gay."
"This one then?" He picked out a beige mule with no adornment.
"Nahhh… too boring."
"How about those?" He pointed at an elegant silver three-inched heel.
"Too dressy. It’s like someone James Bond would date. I’m no James Bond girl." Glancing at me from head to toe and taking in my ukay-ukay ensemble, he replied, "Right."

I stucked out my tongue at him again. Twice this day. Families sure do have a way of making one regress to five-years of age. "Thank your lucky stars we’re in a public place or else I won’t hesitate to thump your 39-inch waist," I shot a threatening look at his belly.

"Ha! Like you can scare me that way! Shorty, you don’t wanna know where I will throw you if you don’t choose something in five minutes." He threw me a mock stern look, then glanced at the escalator across the boutique.

"Sheesh. You asked me to go shopping for shoes then you get crabby." I huffed.

"Missy, this is a large mall. We’ve been in and out dozens of dress shops and shoe stores, you’d think we’d find THE ONE. But nooooo, we’ve spent near three hours looking and you still haven’t found at least one that you like." He exasperated, " And anyway, I still wanna catch that 5:25 movie." 

"Why don’t you wait for me somewhere?"
"Because knowing you, you’d end up with 50 boxes!"
"Well, you don’t see me with A BOX right now, do you?"
"That’s because I’m paying and you could only choose ONE."
"I could pay for my own shoes, you know."

He sighed. "Sometimes sis, you have to give independence a break, "he started, " and give a guy a chance to buy things for you…"
"Ha!"
"The reason why we don’t see guys flocking at your doorstep is because you scare them away by being so dang difficult."
"Hey, hey, this is about my shoes, not my love life!"
"You pick many and remain casual, then throw them aside when you get bored."
"Excuuuuse me! I never -"
"Then you buy again and again… wasting precious hours that could be alloted to relaxing your corns instead of running around malls and horde-buying in the hope of finding THE ONE among the lot."
"Now, I’m confused… are we now back on the subject of shoes?"

Warming up to his speech, he declared, "Quality is way better than quantity!"

And at that very moment, an epiphany flashed before my eyes: my spinster’s gingerbread house in the woods became a nice two-storey house in the suburbs, the houseful of cats transformed into a dog, three kids, and a husband, all eating pancakes on a wonderful sunny Sunday morning. Feeling a fuzzy warmth running all over my body, I urged to push my epiphany a wee bit longer: In the closet of my epiphanied self, I saw only one pair of shoes. I shivered at the bleak scene.

Catching me shuddered, he put an conciliatory hand on my shoulder, "I know. It really is hard to find THE ONE. But don’t you worry, I’ll help you find him," he said, completely misintepreting my involuntary convulsion.

Still dazed, I let him dragged me to a clothing store called TOBY’s that had remained oblivious to me in my entire shopping career until now. There, he lead me in front of a wall full of women’s footwear.

"Gym shoes?" I asked dumbly, "You think THE ONE is a pair of gym shoes?"

"Yep," he grinned, "First of all, it’s comfortable. You could abuse it all you want but it won’t hit back by giving you bunions or corns. THE ONE is a gentleman, it never knows how to hurt a woman."

"But I don’t like trainers or sneakers or whatever you call it these days!"

"… Second, it’s flexible. You could wear it with anything - may it be jeans, dresses or skirts- and you still will have a smile in your face because of the support in puts in your heels and toes. You know, THE ONE is also a friend that is always present to give support in any kind of situation you found yourself into."

"You’re not listening! Don’t I have a say in this kind of things? I mean, it’s my feet that’s gonna wear those! And besides, with my current lifestyle, I don’t need gym shoes."

"Maybe you don’t know what you REALLY need."

"Oh yes, I do. I’m not exactly athletic. YOU, of all people, KNOW that."

"Third, gym shoes doesn’t care whether you’re athletic or not. Plus, it’s also durable. THE ONE -"

"I know… the One will last me a loooong loooong time." I snapped. Snatching a grey with light blue sides out of the shelves, I beckoned a saleslady to give me a six 6. Putting my feet in it, I stood up to test me and the supposed ONE’s compatibility. I walked. I walked around the store. I walked feeling the soles crying in delight of what seems to feel like chocolates to my feet. I walked among aisles, giving me a new perspective to this kind of shoes, thinking that it could work on some of my outfits. I walked. I walked. I walked. Then I stopped in front of my brother, who was waiting with an expectant look on his face.

"Well?"

"Brother dear, please bring out my dotage." I said with a satisfied smile, "I am going to marry THE ONE.

(Photo by FFAbyrd of deviantart)

 P.S.This is a repost from the old Petridish .  I wrote this right after Schroo and I became steady…and also, right after my brother bought me that gym shoes. I reposted it here because listening to Joseph’s playlist invited so many memories that, well, I just gotta evaluate how much of a stupid girl I’ve been.

P.P.S. I’m still stupid.But not so much as before since I still have my "gymshoes" after 3 years.