~When the stars align correctly, Cronehenge receives a message from OrB Weaver.~
***
PINK SATIN PLATFORM HEELS
ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
It was a
very long winter in Southern Delaware. So,
its early summer and I finally get out for a drive early one morning with no
specific destination in mind: just to relish in the cool morning air after days
of wet heat. I leave the house at a
relatively early (for me) hour, around 7 a.m. to beat the heat. And oh, it’s Sunday.
This is
rural Southern Delaware in an area commonly known as Long Neck. It is half way between Millsboro to the West,
and Lewes to the East. Now, I very
rarely have the need (nor the temper for the tourists, those morons) to go to
Lewes, and so my primary route of travel is on the same road, but in the
opposite direction. State Route 24 runs
from Lewes to Millsboro, where it crosses Route 113 and becomes something else
on the other side at some point. Three
years and I have not quite figured out the country roads. Anyway, I run the miles mostly between Long
Neck and Millsboro to 113 for doctors, my library, Lowes, Fulton Bank and lots
of family restaurants. It’s the best way
to get from one side of the state to the other, but ... it’s two lanes, mostly
passing restricted (which stops no one), but with quite a few areas that allow
passing for brief sections. As a result,
it has the highest fatality rate of any Delaware state road. That’s quite an accomplishment. Misplaced, but notable.
On
this particular morning there was quite a bit of fairy fog lying in the low
field areas and in low-lying woodland.
The sun was shining, reflecting off the mist, and everything was covered
in soft sparkles of light. Just as I
move into a curve into an area of woods, on the side of the road I see
something ... no, two things ... lying
there, obviously discarded from a vehicle, two platform high heel satin strap
pumps in what the ‘50s used
to be called “Titty
Pink,” and omigod, it was a note from the Cosmos.
First and foremost, now I know there is at least one other
person as totally spontaneous and psychotic as I am. Hooray for my side. Bless you sister, I wish I knew who you
are. But it will have to be enough to
know that at least one time, in an absolute fury of independence, I can see you in my mind’s eye, a word, a look, a ‘tsk’ pointed
towards you, you took OFF those ComeFuckMe shoes and heaved’em out a car
window, because you had come to the end of the line of ridicule, abuse,
torture, hypocrisy, or because the wedding was such a flop, you actually felt some blame, so you tossed them
to restore some balance in your universe.
I threw my shoes out the car window at 70 miles per hour, bright forest
green satin, the guy behind me in the semi was surely waiting for the
body. But that was my freedom
gesture. And shoes make a
statement. Shoes are like ... “I’d rather go barefoot than walk one more
foot in these shoes that I wouldn’t wear if it weren’t for you ...”
So to say
I had an immediate kinship with the former owner of those magnificent shoes
(think Joan Crawford, think early Bette Davis, or Lana Turner), because shoes
say it all. And she was certainly giving
some man a big FUCK YOU.
The only reason we wear those tortuous designs is because it is part of
female DNA, programmed to believe that shoes actually sell sex. And, yes.
They do. And we allow it to
continue, because even if we accept it’s bad for us, it’s always been fun to be
bad.
You go, girl, you of the pink
platforms. I almost went back and
retrieved them, but I thought, no, that’s none of my business and I shouldn’t
interfere in what was so obviously a very strong signal to someone. So I left them there in the hope that
everyone will wonder and everyone will have a story, but you have sent a clear
message of being just plain fed up. You
get mad enough, anything’s possible.
Even something good.
Or, of
course, you might have just hated the shoes.
Orb Weaver
July 8, 2015
