Shoes are made for walking...and that's what they should do!

Don’t let your love for shoes take over your life. I wouldn’t say this if it weren’t true.

If you are friend or foe of mine then you will know how much I love shoes. I have been in a dysfunctional relationship with them from the very beginning. I think it started when I went to college. I no longer had to wear the brown canvas shoes my school had forced me to wear for 10 years. I was free to wear shoes that had high heels, shoes that allowed my toes to peek, and most of all shoes that didn’t have to endure rain, sun and weather.

I binged. I bought shoes like I was born to walk. Stilettos, pumps, ballets, slingbacks, slip ons, flip-flops – I had all of it and even knew the difference between them.

Nothing comes free. I injured my Achilles tendon balancing on high heels. I cracked my ankle when I slipped and fell down a flight of stairs all because my new shoes didn’t have enough traction. I have lost my balance and grabbed unsuspecting people. I have fallen flat on my face. I have landed on my behind. But I never regretted it. I loved my footwear no matter how badly it treated me.

I have spent plenty of time and dime on this footwear fetish. Whenever I walk by a shoe store my shoe sense starts to tingle. The shoes send out a signal only a few women can pick up. Like a possessed human I walk into the store just to hear all my minions scream “Pick me! Pick me!”

I carefully pick the ones I like. I have to be fair. They are all good. But only one will make the cut. (Ok – I lied – many will make the cut if there is a sale).

Sometimes I shoe shop for a reason. For example - I buy a dress or a watch or a pair of earrings, they need a companion to go with. So I buy shoes. So I bought more and more shoes. Soon my shoe rack couldn’t take it anymore and it crumbled under its weight.

I had a custom shoe closet made. It’s a closet just for shoes. It had enough capacity to house my greed. I was generous enough to give husband and children some space to throw in their footwear too.

Husband is a shoe bummer. He hates shopping for shoes. He will walk into a store and pick a pair (that looks exactly like the one he is wearing), pay for it and leave happily. This whole experience is fun for the salesman too.

When I shop for shoes, husband spends his time surfing the net. He promises me that he has read everything on the internet twice in one shopping expedition.

I have given him my insights into shoe shopping yet he will pick-pay-leave. He just doesn’t know to how to use my resourses.

Then one day, a horrible thing happened. A thief entered my neighbourhood and stole everybody’s shoes. Well only the good stuff. He snuck into the well guarded gated community and took what will fetch him a pretty penny in the black market. He took husband's leather shoes, suede shoes, his countless basketball, tennis, football and other athletic shoes. He even took off with my daughter light-up shoes. I lost thousands of rupees worth of shoes in one night.

What he didn’t take was my baby’s sandals, slippers and any of my shoes.

Now I should be happy. I was, except that I wasn’t.

You see, I have spent so much time and money on these shoes and the thief, nasty as he is, failed to see how great they were. My years and years of hardwork is not worth a dime in the black market.

The only thing he took that belonged to me was my aerobics shoes – and I don’t even like them. They were comfortable and didn’t send me to ER with a broken ankle. But come on – did he really want that bucket of sweat??

So I have concluded. Shoes are here to serve us. We are not here to serve them. Even now I shop for shoes but I don’t let them take over my life. Just kidding!

The day my washing machine broke

I haven’t hand-washed clothes since 1979. Yes, it’s true. During yesteryears my mother had a trusty maid who washed all my clothes. When technology took a head start we had a lovely washing machine – loud yet it got the job done. Kind of like my mother’s maid. Then I got married and moved to California. There we had a washing machine that washed and dried – I mean bone dried all my clothes. And after I moved to Bangalore I got another state of the art washing machine. It was the best thing Samsung invented and LG envied.

My maid refused to operate it because she thought it will launch her into space or something absurd like that. So I sorted the clothes and loaded the mean beast. My clothes came out bright and white smelling like dancing rain. My maid would fold and sort the load for the ironwalla to do his magic.

It was picture perfect. All our closets decked with clean awesome smelling clothes. Never was there a day when we were rummaging the inner labyrinths of the closet for ridiculous clothes that have been forgotten with time and trends. Everything worth wearing was within reach. Perfect perfect perfect.

Then one day the storm came. The sky turned an angry grey. Lightning bolted and thunder clapped. The whole atmosphere looked like an angry parent staring at a report card. The wind howled in fear. A scared electric pole succumbed to the stampede of the wind and the power lines went down. It tried to come back up. But nature was furious. The power kept fluctuating leaving Bangalore homes in a semi discotheque ambience. With one last wail all the power lines finally went down plunging IT city into darkness. I looked outside my window only to see my entire neighbourhood lit by a few cell phones and laptops.

The whole night nature gave a dramatic display of wind and rain. In the morning everything cleared up. People were back to work, children were back to school and roads were still a mess.

I went about my day. I turned on the washing machine and it wouldn’t respond. I tried CPR – wait its not what you think, CPR to machines is mostly turning the machine on and off a few times, kicking it and then crying. Oh yes, that’s how things work.

I finally gave up and called the customer service department. They made me go through the same drill, “did you try turning it on and off” – duh!! After a few minutes of fake formalities I registered a complaint. They told the guy will be there tomorrow.

Having just returned from a beach holiday we as a family had carried half the sand from the coast of the Bay of Bengal in our clothes. I had over three loads of laundry. I knew if I wait for this guy to show up my kids will not have school uniforms for the rest of the week and my husband will run out of laundry and will resort to the Hawaiian shirt he bought 7 years ago during a moment of fashion insanity!

I asked my maid to wash the clothes. If you have read my other blog you will know what a queen my maid is. I use the word ‘queen’ because calling her a ‘princess’ is slumming her. She refused to wash the clothes because when she joined work the deal was that she will only hang the clothes to dry and fold them, washing is madam’s job. To be fair I did agree to those terms 5 years back so why break it now. Besides how hard is washing clothes going to be? The beautiful mom in the detergent commercial is so cool about washing clothes. She had such beautiful hands it looked like an ad for manicure products. Apparently she dunks the clothes in the bucket with just a handful of detergent. 30 minutes later she rinses the clothes and voila – the clothes look like they were scrubbed by ten hands.

So I thought I’ll take the plunge. I mean come on – we cant rely on machines all the time now, can we? (long story short – we need machines).

I did what the lady in the commercial did. The clothes looked hideous. Whites looked brown, brown looked black and black looked, well I don’t know if the black clothes got cleaned at all. I scrubbed and scrubbed. I even looked deep into the detergent packet because my packet didn’t come with ten hands.

Finally when I was done I realised I had to squeeze the clothes with my hands and hang them out of the dry. This happened because my maid – the queen, saw how hard it was for me to do these chores. She thought it was in her best interest to take a few days off till this laundry fiasco sorts itself out.

So here I was sorting, dunking, scrubbing, washing, rinsing and repeating this process for every shirt and skirt! Finally I was done. I cleared all the laundry. It took me 4 hours but I did it. I felt like Rocky Balboa after a match. Bruised, battered yet victorious.

Then it happened. My kids dragged in muddy evening clothes, clothes that have seen sandpits and armpits. Husband comes home and drops his gym bag – it does not smell like a springtime meadow. The next load of laundry was piling, fast.

It dawned on me that as a family we are not laundry sensitive. We have abused the machine over the years. Every item of clothing that comes in contact with us is tossed in the laundry basket when its job is done. Our clothes are taken good care of by a machine that doesn’t whine or gets expensive manicures. At the push of a button it treats all clothes the same – with gentleness and care.

As expected the washing machine repair guy didn’t turn up the next day. I sat with baited breath for this guy to show up. But it was an empty promise. I cancelled coffee with my girlfriends waiting for this guy.

The next day came and it was washing day again. But this day was better. The technician turned up and found out what was wrong. The power outage fried the circuits of my favorite machine. He took down some info and has promised to come tomorrow and fix it. Until then I have to assume my superhero avatar – Laundry Lady. I know it doesn’t have a nice to ring to it but what can I do the roles and duties are worse than the name.

If the technician doesn't come tomorrow I may have to resort to what this lovely lady did.