The Opera Shoes

Do you ever have those days when you just want to tell Henry David Thoreau to shove it? I had one of those days yesterday.

I had a long over-do appointment with my doctor, concerning the fact that I went cold turkey on the sleeping pills in April, right after my disastrous horror show with the Fiend from Hell, masquerading as a dentist, checking my teeth and telling me she was afraid the new was not good. (More on this, check The Mellow Instrument.)

I had put off the appointment as long as I could, ignoring both my man’s and my friends’, not to mention my parents’, advice about it, letting their “But jesus, shouldn’t you hear what the doctor has to say before just terminating the treatment on your own?” go in one ear out the other, secretly fearing a similar scolding once I finally got inside the nice doctor’s office with the ficus and the stethoscope and the tongue depressors just waiting to get to action.

So, yesterday was the big day, over two months after the fact, and, as there have been some sleepy nights under my belt since, not just the sleepless ones, I felt like I had a rock to stand on. Well, maybe not a rock, but at least a pebble.

Turned out it was okay. After all, there was nothing she could do about it now, and she just said it was good that I came to check in, and that she’d write down the fact that I had stopped taking the sleeping pills. “But, you know, sleeping is kind of important, I mean I know so are healthy teeth, but if you are not getting any –“

“But I still have some leftover tranquilizers from before I was put on the sleeping pill, and I have discovered that when in dire need, if I take one of those, in the end, I do get a few hours.”

“But you know you can’t use them all the time, that is dangerous stuff.”

“I know, but somehow, the fact that you all have been warning me about using them has really done the trick, and I take one say once a month. I have no interest whatsoever to replace the sleeping pill with another pill, the point is to come out of this pill-free. And hey, the prescription is like two years old, so you do the math. There were thirty pills in that bottle, and I still have I think seven left, so it’s not like I’m sucking the cotton ball to get the extra.”

“Well good! Good for you.”

We talked some more, and she let me go without using the ruler on my fingers. But a doctor’s appointment is a doctor’s appointment, and so, right after, I called my man to say I really needed a hit, I was so wired and tired and in post-jitters and tension-builders of the natural kind, so if he’d meet me in our usual haunt in twenty minutes.

I had a little time since I was already in the neighborhood, so I did what most women do: went window shopping. A huge mistake. There’s this fabulous vintage clothes store very near my doctor’s office, and wouldn’t you just know that they had the most beautiful black-and-white striped pumps with a strass buckle in the shape of a C in the window. Furthermore, the shoes looked big, big enough to fit my humongous horse feet. Usually I’m safe, shoeswise, when I go vintage clothes shopping, since I am a tall girl with feet the size of a small elephant, I mean can you imagine the women of times past trapesing around in size nine, or even ten in some cases, sandals? Well neither can I, but there they sat, for christ’s sakes, so gorgeous, hardly used, high as a skyscraper, exquisite, classy, whispering to me.

In I went. And of course it was a perfect fit, I was like Cinderella, if Cinderella went shopping for some perfect shoes for the ball by herself in a vintage clothes store in Tampere. “Oh, man, I’ve got to have ’em”, I told the proprietor. “I mean look at them. I’ve got plans to go to the opera tomorrow, and I’m so wearing these shoes.” “Yes, I think you are”, she replied, in total cahoots. That’s one thing about the vintage clothes store proprietors: they are always in cahoots with me. Go figure.

So I bought the shoes, and went to the marina to meet my man. We met outside the establishment. “You sure you wanna do this?” he asked. “Yes. I’m sure. It’s been ages since the last time.” “Okay. Let’s do it”, he said, and opened the door for me.

We took our usual seats near the door, through the picture window a lovely view of the little marketplace and the boats, and the water a little further down. There was a line, so we waited our turn, and while we waited, I jammed another calling card inside the guestbook. It’s what I always do when we go there. Billie Holiday was singing in the background. On the window sill, the proprietor had placed several black-and-white coffee table books, Robert Doisneau’s and other photographers’ pictures of Paris. On the table between us there were two pink roses in a vase.

Finally, it was our turn. “Okay, I’ll have the size large oatmeal with the ham and avocado and egg. Moderation be damned”, I ordered. “For me, the pesto and Parmesan porridge, also large”, my man said.

“Would you like some coffee as well?” the proprietor asked.

“Yes, two coffees. And for the other, a hit of the oat milk.”

The food came, and we started wolfing down the porridge. “You know, if I could make oatmeal taste this good at home, this dish would really give my pasta a run for its money”, I mused, mouth full of the delicious and healthy slow food.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Nothing can ever come between you and your pasta”, M. said from somewhere amid his portion.

“Yeah I know. But it’s a nice change. Man, this is so good.”

Living the simple life with no superficial, materialistic rubbish staining the pristine day of small portions of salad and wearing trainers all the time and going for a walk in the nature preserve, preferably just after the rain when the forest is at its most fragrant, is all nice and lovely. But sometimes, going all-out Carrie Bradshaw with the shoe fetish and the ladylike enthusiasm to really have a go at making oneself look pretty is just what the doctor ordered. I don’t even care that my feet will want to murder me after our date night tonight.

But at least the lunch was all good and healthy, although the amount was really Papa Bear’s portion, not an albeit tall, but otherwise normal-sized woman’s, with just slightly abnormally large feet.