Shoes approved for Bocce play. Photo by Jean Thornton

You might not know this about the Island Shoe Girl, but I am actually an athlete of sorts.  Okay, so maybe calling me an athlete is a bit of stretch.  I do, however, belong on an organized team which plays in an organized league—there are even playoffs and I believe some type of trophy.   The sport which has embraced my need to wear elevated shoes and allows me to consume a fair amount of wine is bocce. 

Believe it or not, Bocce is alive and well in Key West, Florida.  In fact, I think it is one of the most treasured sports in Key West.  This could be largely due to the fact that it allows its players to drink and it requires little physical effort.  Thus age and physique can both be ignored on this court.  There are few who really put their whole self into it; I have never been one for falling in the dirt, so I keep my rolling more controlled. 

Perhaps so many in Key West like bocce because it’s a sport that seems to embrace anyone.  After all, this is a sport that allows me to play in wedges; as long as my heels do not puncture the court, it is fair game.  My shoes might even help me a little. If nothing else, they create a distraction to those I am playing against, and occasionally they are used to measure the distance between balls. 

It is also a game that has allowed one of the most un-athletic people in the world to be a part of a team.  I have never been a ‘desired’ teammate—which I find strange because I always wear a cute outfit and have nicely manicured nails whenever taking part in a sporting event.  Maybe it’s my declaration that I must wear at least 3-inch heels at all times in my life.  For whatever reason, I have always been an undesirable addition to a team all the way back to my gym class days, but somehow on the bocce court my quirks make me a valuable player. 

By no means would I put the word “most” in front of that valuable player title, but nonetheless I bring something to my team.  And on occasion I have even helped claim victory…of course I have helped claim loses too.  Yet, my team generally forgives me as I forgive them when a ball seems to magically roll the opposite direction of where it was intended.   Because at the end of a game it’s not always about winning, although it’s really nice to win, it’s more about enjoying the people around you. 

Yes, Virginia, there is sport for shoe girls, even shoe girls who refuse to take their shoes off.  I am not sure I will ever go down in the bocce history books as one of the greatest to ever toss a pallina.  But I just might go down in the history of the Southernmost Bocce League for tossing a pallina in heels.  And let’s face it, the best history books are the ones written by your friends. 

Are the days of local shoe stores over? Photo by Jean Thornton

Something happened in Key West last week that has sadly been happening elsewhere across the country—a local business announced it closure.  Fast Buck Freddie’s, a locally owned and operated department store, will close its doors at the end of May, ending it 37 year run on the corner of Duval and Fleming.  While many businesses have come and gone from Duval Street, many thought they would never see the day when this institution hung up the “going out of business” signs.

Freddie’s has long been a favorite place for both tourists and locals.  Harkening back to the days of old, it made ample use of the large display windows that wrapped around the store.  In a fast-paced world, even for those of us who try to live on ‘island time’, the windows could make anyone stop.  Freddie’s not only brought us unique gifts, clothing, and furniture, it also shaped Key West’s culture with the creation of Fantasy Fest.

But alas, windows and parades are not enough to save this local business, and all of the American Express campaigns could not help Freddie’s fight against the internet and the changing ways of shoppers.  No longer is it enough to have the product right there at your finger tips, the world of smart phones and apps have now made it so the Freddies of the world have to offer the lowest price, cheapest shipping, and have it at your door tomorrow morning.  There is no longer value in items carefully wrapped in tissue paper and placed in paper shopping bags when clicking a few buttons can get it for a few dollars less.

I am sure many reading this can recall a favorite store or shop now long gone.  The record store you visited weekly in college, the boutique you could always rely on for the perfect outfit, the little bakery that seemed to always have your favorite treat.  Perhaps now those once-loved places are convenience stores, corporate coffee shops, and places that sell cell phone charges so you can keep shopping while never entering an actual store.

Call me crazy but I still remember the joy of shopping in an actual store.  In the days before Christmas when my mom and I would wander through stores along the downtown streets searching for the perfect gift that could be held in the buyer’s hand as they imagined the joy that item might bring to a loved one.  This was when an actual human being waited on you in person, pulled items from behind glass cases that were polished and shined. Now you are lucky if you have an instant messenger chat with an “associate” in some distant place as you click your screen for multiple views.  We are quickly losing the days of dressing room fashion shows with friends and the hunt for the perfect stiletto in a shoe department. 

The ease of online shopping and the chance at a better price has left us with downtowns no longer defined by unique shops where clerks know your name and your preferences.  Instead, our main streets are at great risk of becoming more and more mainstream, filled with corporate-run businesses that offer only what they think we ‘should’ like and nothing more.  And we remain shocked when all of our friends have the same throw pillows, handbags, and clothing without ever realizing we have limited our own style in search for a better deal. 

It is too late for Fast Buck Freddie’s.  Come June 1 there will likely be paper on those famous windows and soon thereafter the sign of some new store.  I for one won’t be shocked if it is one we have seen a thousand times before.  But this weekend, before you click your way through a shopping list, think about those local stores of old and how much they once meant to you.  And then shop the local shop first, before you have to shop it one last time.

A future shoe girl practices in her mom’s boots. Photo by Jessica Bennett

I am not a mom.  I am good with kids for about 6 hours and then my focus begins to wane.  Sometimes when I am watching a friend’s children, they will remark that I can get their kids to bed fairly quickly.  This is because I have been waiting for 9pm since I arrived at their house and am a firm believer that 9pm is when both children and the Mickey Mouse Playhouse need to shut it down for the night.

Children are powerless against me because I worked every trick in the book growing up.  Mystery 8:45 stomach aches?  Had it for years, kid.   Sudden burst of interest in reading at 8:50?  You would think I would be a lot smarter if I really wanted to read another book.  8:55 crippling hunger pains?  Hello, let’s not even pretend that’s original.  And of course there’s the ‘Hail Mary play’ at 9:00 of missing Mommy/Daddy?  Sell it somewhere else, sweetheart; this shoe girl is all stocked up on sad stories. 

Despite my tendency to rule with an iron stiletto, kids love me.  They love that I smell like perfume.  They love that my nails are shiny and red; that I wear tall shoes and have a purse that—although lacking Gold Fish snacks—always has some type of gum their parents would never give them.  And the only “grape juice” at my house has been aged into red wine.  I even have the dog their mom says they cannot take care of. 

I am their mom’s exotic friend who still lives in the land of “Single-ville.”  I have breakable things on shelves they can reach, magazines that talk about nail polish as opposed to furniture polish, and I don’t have to spell words out in the comfort of my own home.  I let them make a mess because at the end of the day I don’t have to clean it up. And I have never had to remove bath toys before taking a shower.  I am the opposite of mom. 

This is not a bad thing.  This is just how life separates the moms from the non-moms.  Moms get snuggles during bedtime stories; non-moms get glasses of wine while watching Bravo.  Moms get macaroni art; non-moms get to go to that artist show at a trendy gallery.   Moms get Mother’s Day breakfast in bed, and non-moms get a late brunch with their fellow single friends. 

I am willing to guess that most moms would not give up the snuggles, edible art, or slightly burnt toast for the things that non-moms enjoy.  Perhaps some day when their kids are grown, these moms will once again find themselves watching a Real Housewives reunion special and enjoy the sheer pleasure of being smarter than six women sitting on sofa screaming at each other over a child’s birthday gift.  But in the meantime, enjoy the little things that only come with being a mom.  

There comes a time for all moms when the macaroni art trade dries up (literally) and they suddenly have the time for painting nails and Sunday Brunch.    The non-mom things are easy to get back; the mom things are little bit harder to find again.  So, speaking for all the non-moms out there, never be annoyed that we can trick your kids into going to sleep or that your kid thinks my house is so cool and has a dog.  Because if your kids were really that impressed with us non-moms, we would have macaroni art.  So enjoy your day, all of you moms.  Let us non-moms buy you a drink… don’t worry; we can wait till your kids are asleep or in college—whichever comes first.

Dear Sir or Madame,

This week I am taking a moment to write to you about an element of style that one will not find in your closet, dresser, or jewelry box.   I am stomping my stilettos for a piece of good taste and elegance that is fading.  OurUnited States’ Post Office is in jeopardy of becoming extinct and with it the tradition of handwritten letters are going too.  While this may not seem like a fashion issue, good manners and proper correspondence are always in style.  Just like a pair of black patent leather pumps, a hand-written letter delivered by our friendly postal person is a classic reflection of American chic-ness. 

Now I am the first person to admit that the Post Office has frustrated me in the past.  I will not dredge up issues that are better left among junk mailings from Pier One; but it is enough to say that I have also been frustrated by increased postage rates, long lines to mail a present, and even a random and confusing re-direction of my mail one November.  But today I come to you to plead the case of mail in its purest form: the letter. 

Remember when mail was fun?  When it was all birthday cards and postcards from friends on vacations?  When you opened a letter from your grandmother and a well-worn five dollar bill fell out?  Those were the days before our mailboxes contained credit card bills and cell phone statements, when we were not constantly bombarded with promises of lower insurance rates and 20% off coupons from Bed,Bath, and Beyond….honestly who is buying that much stuff for the bed or bath, or beyond?

In these modern days when many of us carry our Blackberries and I-Phones loaded with our multiple email accounts, the ability to text message and even Facebook, it is clear why many have abandoned the art of old-fashioned letter writing.  Most of us may struggle to even find a stamp when it comes time to respond to the rare bill that is not accepted by online payment.  Convenience is killing letter writing. 

I am not proclaiming that we hearken back to the old days of pressing a wax seal against the lip of an envelope, but there is value beyond the current rate of postage in writing an occasional letter or two.  A handwritten letter is like the perfect Hermes bag or a simple strand of pearls; it is the difference between an outfit and “a look.”  Like Jackie O’s oversized glasses, a graceful slopping cursive ‘M’ starting a Mrs., Mr., Miss., or Ms. and the ending a flourish after a zip code scribed across a small, colored envelop is  a demonstration of taste.

Think of the cards you have tucked into drawers, hidden in the back of yearbooks and photo albums.  What do they say; what moments do they commemorate?  Perhaps there is a graduation announcement from high school next to the card your grandmother wrote, expressing her pride and hope for your future.  Maybe there is a birthday card from a college friend who time has separated from you.  If you are lucky, there might be a love letter of sorts from a flame possibly extinguished now, or it represents a love still strong.  One day, sadly, these letters and the words scribbled on Hallmark Cards and stationary could be the only sample of handwriting left by those who loved us the most.  And long after we can’t hear them say our names or “I love you”, we hold onto those declarations and the everyday statements quickly jotted at the end of note meant just to say hello.

And while there are cards that you surely have saved, if you are lucky there are cards you have sent that are equally treasured by those recipients.   The card we mailed to mark a holiday or other special moment for a loved one, may just be the simple gesture that brings a smile to our grandparents’, parents’, or siblings’ faces.  Ask any solider and I am sure they will tell you that a letter, simple and thoughtful, from someone back home describing ordinary moments is worth far more than 45¢. 

Since the days of the Pony Express there has been nothing more worth the wait than a piece of mail sent, not because it requires urgent attention, but because it is meant to share or perhaps provide some cheer.  Yes, there is great importance in the mail; it says things we did not realize we want to say.  There might be quicker, easier ways to communicate in a world of Skype and internet hype.  Waiting at the Post Office may cause us to tap our pumps and shift in our sling-backs; use your Blackberry to pass the time.  Trust me, the minutes spent there will be worth continuing the tradition and art of writing a letter, and it will certainly keep you classically stylish. 

Sincerely,

The Island Shoe Girl XOXO

12 simple steps can lead you to place of shoe zen. Photo by Jean Thornton

1. Admit we were powerless over shoes- that our shoe closets have become unmanageable.  This is step that should not be feared but celebrated.   A weight will be lifted off your shoulders and a spring will re-appear in your step because now you have accepted that shoes control your life, and hey, it’s not your fault because you are powerless under their influence.  Embrace your personal weakness and let it be to the benefit of your feet.  Reorganize your shoe closet; this time without the shame that says you should hide your bounty of shoes but instead with says cherish them all.

2. Come to believe that a power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity.  That’s right—there’s a higher shoe power I like to call it the Sak’s Fifth Avenue shoe department.  As far as the eye can see it’s all shoes—so big it has its own zip code.  It is the perfect place to reflect and restore your inner peace while at the same time admiring the way your ankles look into those new Sergio Rossi’s!  It may be called a “shoe section” by others, but to me it’s a Zen Garden filled with sparkling buckles and gems adorning both pointed and rounded-toe pumps.

3. Make a decision to turn shoes over to the care of our higher shoe power, as we understand it.  In life it seems we always want to question what we are given.  In this step it is time to stop wondering if we are supposed to click on that Bluefly sale banner and trust that our higher shoe power wants us to.  It is not our job to question why we get the personal email invites to shop or if the sale is good enough.  It is our job to accept that sale as a gift and what our higher shoe power really wants us to do. 

4. Make a searching and fearless inventory of our shoes.  Get into the depths of your shoe closet and make an inventory of what is truly in there.  Rediscover shoes that have drifted to the back and reintroduce them to your rotation.  Hey, maybe those Cole Hann’s you bought for that wedding two years ago are the perfect partner for that new Kate Spade handbag!  For the thrifty shoe shopper, sometimes the best deals are the ones we find in our closets (or that of our friends).

5. Admit to our higher shoe power, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our shoe wrongs.  This is the hard one.  It’s time to admit that time you wore those Crocs out in public.  And while you are at it, confess to those times you did not treat your shoes with the respect they deserve.  Oh sure you were so tired you could not put your Jimmy Choos back their sleep bag… enough excuses! 

6. We’re entirely ready to remove all these defects of shoe character.  Open yourself up to make a real change in your life and remove those bad shoe habits from your future.  Let your mind be free from judgments about shoe designers who have left you flat in the past.  Some day in the future that same designer may just release a fabulous selection of wedges. 

7. Humbly ask to remove our shoe shortcomings.  This is hard and I am not sure it works because I have been praying for my foot to be the perfect size 6 for years but my big toes have not yet started to shrink. 

8. Make a list of all persons we have allowed to wear bad shoes, and become willing to make amends to them all.  We all have that person in our life who does not shoe as well as we do.  Perhaps we have tried to reach out; perhaps we have kept these concerns to ourselves.  Regardless, now is the time to right these shoe wrongs by helping them right their bad shoes.  As long and as difficult as it may be, it is time to teach those who shoe bad how to shoe good. 

9. Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.  Talking about shoes is always fun, even if the person listening does not know that.  But if you keep reminding them about how great shoes are, sooner or later they will get it.  The only time you should not help someone to shoe better is if they have a medical condition.  For example, my grandmother has bad knees and foot problems, so it is okay to excuse her sneakers.  (Plus, I have seen some photographs of her in her younger days and I definitely get a little bit of my shoe streak from her!)

10. Continue to take a personal shoe inventories and when we shoe wrong promptly admit it.  Now that our lives and our shoe closets are in order, keep that organization in your life.  When you make a bad shoe choice, admit it and grow from your mistakes.  It really is the only way to become a better shoe girl.  Perfection is a something we have to constantly strive for, and once one shoe goal is met, set another to keep yourself moving forward. 

11. Seek through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with our higher shoe power—and our favorite shoe salesclerk, praying for knowledge of insider sales and the latest trends that will give us the will and the power to carry out our shoe purpose in life.  Only when we open our minds and we free our inner shoe detective can we embrace the glory of shoes.  A good shoe girl loves a good deal and to be on top of the latest shoe trend… especially when that means being on top of 5-inch heels! 

12. Having had a spiritual shoe awakening as the result of these steps, we now carry this message to others and to practice these principles in all our shoe affairs.   You have let your inner shoe spirit out.  No longer are you someone who focuses solely on your own shoes—you are now someone who shares the message of shoe enlightenment.  Take this message to the masses and carry your wisdom far and wide… if you can carry it in a cute Marc Jacobs tote.

If these shoes could Facebook.... photo by Stephanie Kaple

As I write this, I know I run the risk of committing Facebook suicide by saying what I am about to say.  I can imagine within in mere minutes that my “friends” list will drop to single digit numbers; yet I can no longer live in silence… at least status update silence.  Good people of the world, some of this Facebook content is getting out of control—and this is coming from a woman who thinks having fewer than 100 pairs of shoes is a sign of mental illness. 

I was not the first to jump on the Facebook bandwagon.  Like many others, I have had my hesitations about posting my random thoughts—let alone deep thoughts—online for the world (or my selected world) to see.  Despite my resistance, I came around and now find the updates and pictures of my friends a nice distraction when waiting in line at the post office or killing time during commercial breaks.  It has been strange to reconnect with people who would have become long lost faces found only in old high school yearbooks or as the faded names of those we used to play with in elementary days. 

I have been amazed by the ways I can now relate to these friends who once ran the risk of becoming just someone I used to know.  Now, we exchange recipes, recommend books and gossip about the latest celebrity breakups.  As much as I hate to admit it, it’s kind of amazing to see the friends I knew as kids (let’s face it, we were) now become these adults who have careers, change their communities, and yes answer the complicated questions from their own kids.  And I hope they find some old humor and new humor in my continuous updates about shoes…which I find insightful and important!

With all that said, I have to lay it on the line: I think some folks are spending way too much time updating their Facebook status and not enough time on their lives in general.  Okay, call me ridiculous and say nasty things, but you know I am right.  Scan down your news feed and you will surely find more than one friend who appears to spend the majority of their days looking for little cute sayings to share on their page, and these are generally done with some type of vintage style image.  Sometimes they are complaining about a lack of wine, sex, good men, or chocolate which all seem like problems a trip to the grocery store could resolve if you know how to shop and flirt in the meat department.  Other times they might just proclaim the obvious like how much a pet loves them. Listen—my dog should be loving me.  After all, I carry his poop around in a bag for several blocks at least three times a day. 

As if the fact that some portion of the population has the time to search out their cute little squares of wisdom to share all day, I also have to know where all of my friends are and what they are eating.  I get it, your friends are real and you go places where you have fabulous food and my friends are profile pictures that just posted a video of a cat falling off a piano.  Whatever!  And while we are on the subject, a status update about how your significant other is the love of your life is pointless.  After all, if you are in a serious relationship with anniversaries and perhaps public ceremony declaring your love I am going to assume that that person treats you well.  I don’t need an update about how much you love them or how they have given you some amazing or unique gift as an unexpected expression of that love.  Unless that expression included something from Tiffany’s or Chanel, I won’t be impressed. 

Here’s the deal: I want to know when your kid does something freaking adorable; I love it when you tell me your team won at bar trivia. Heck, I even care when the copier broke at your office.  I am right there with you, fellow Facebook warrior.  I want to support you like a platform Jimmy Choo supports my arches.  But I do not want to help run a fictional farm, create an imaginary zoo or collect fake diamonds.  Please let’s keep the status updates free of cute-kitten-hanging-from-a-tree-limb. Yes, it is almost Friday but this friend is not “hanging in there”; she’s more like to saw off the limb or de-friend you.

Despite the fact that I did not give to live the Paul Simon song and wear diamonds on the soles of my shoes, I have decided to pick myself up, dust on my not so sparkly stilettos, and carry on with my non-millionaire life.  Now you might be thinking that the fact that my state does not participate in this Power Ball Lottery would darken my dreams of winning.  But let’s face it, even the most isolated shoe girl heard about these mega millions.  Who wouldn’t dream a little dream about how those hundreds of millions would change her life?

I am proud to say that the first thoughts I had for how to use my imaginary multi-millions was for good.  Without much hesitation I could easily promise my first and most significant use of the money would be to give to some charities particularly close to my heart.  The thought of telling my boss that he was never going to have to worry about writing another grant or worry about another budget cut, but to say instead that from this moment onward we will worry only about saving lives would be pretty incredible.  I could imagine dashing off checks to my alma maters and providing for my family.  

But after the good deeds are done, I would still be a significantly wealthy lady.  And I do mean significantly wealthy lady.  I would be so wealthy that you could forget about me limiting myself to shoes closets.  It would be silly to think that a shoe room would do in this financial bracket; no, I would require a shoe house at this point.  And I mean a house made of shoes, carefully laid out and stacked to provide my little shoe-loving heart with a cocoon of stilettos. 

No longer would I have to hope to find a hidden pair of Manolo Blahnik’s on a sale rack.  If I had a desire to bargain hunt I could buy the entire outlet mall and then just roam about at my leisure.  Who needs guest rooms for all your visiting friends and family when you can have a guest block of houses?  Imagine the luxury of keeping your loved ones at a distance that will allow them to stay your loved ones.  I could even pay off my car… okay it’s a used Kia Rio, a scratch off lottery ticket could probably take care of that. 

But there would be downsides as well.  A girl of independent means would surely be a target of kidnappers, scoundrels, and politicians in need of Super PACs.  I am not sure what I would fear more—a lurking kidnapper or a loitering Rick Santorum.  Personally, I think I could fend off Santorum easily with a pack of my birth control pills.  And at this crazy level of wealth, I would have to start hanging out with Oprah when I wanted to be around someone richer than me.  How annoying would it be every time she picked up lunch and screamed, “You get a free salad!”

Yes, I am surely better off to be just another working stiff.  Especially since one winner will probably never get another spit-free Big Mac again.  Because while those poor (well not financially) folks who do have a winning ticket are now being thrust into a whole new world where dreams are quickly becoming reality and maybe even becoming nightmares, my dreams get to remain happy and in my head.

So yes, I will hum Diamonds On the Soles of Her Shoes a little bit louder this week while adding to the long list of dreams that might one day come true if I pick those winning numbers.  But I will consider myself lucky all the same to be just an Island Shoe Girl with rhinestones on the soles of my shoes.

Is it better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission when it comes to stilettos? Photo by Jean Thornton

A friend was recently in New York City and discovered a trifecta suited for this Island Shoe Girl.  Creating a nice little triangle were Sak’s Fifth Avenue, Michael Kors, and St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  She pointed out that I could easily run between the three, first shopping and then asking forgiveness for my shoe sins.  Of course I am not sure the penance would go well as I would likely be in love with another pair of stilettos before I could finish a Hail Mary, let alone a full Rosary. 

Let’s hope the Virgin Mother loved a good strappy heel as much as the rest of us; she might be able to put in a good word for me.  But, alas, I am afraid that gluttony is one deadly sin a shoe girl like me cannot avoid.  So while I am begging forgiveness I might as well give into envy, greed, and lust while I gaze across a designer shoe section.  Thank God there isn’t a martini bar on that street; then I would surely be doomed! 

Even if you are not a shoe girl, surely every one of us has felt some sting of guilt over our passions.  It could be the NFL game that you choose over Sunday mass.  Or maybe it’s that extra glass of wine…okay, bottle…that leaves you sleeping a little late.  The extra money you spent on a new evening bag as opposed to giving to the Sunday offering plate.  That darn nagging voice that continues to whisper in your ear when indulging perhaps just a little too much and depriving a just little too little. 

And as loud as those fabulous heels might tap and click as you strut, they can seldom drown out that inner voice reminding you that perhaps you have over-justified your budget for self-indulgence.  So what is a shoe girl to do when faced with the choice of heavenly shoes versus heavenly rules? 

I have always been a firm believer that the taller the stiletto the closer to Jesus.  And there must be a heaven as evidenced by the way a pair Manolo Blahniks’ make me float on little clouds.  I can almost hear angels sing when I feel the fine-crafted leather of a designer handbag sliding against my arm.  So is it really wrong to desire such things?  Am I only enjoying God’s handy work when I walk on such perfect soles?  Aren’t I just embracing God’s perfect vision when I wear Chanel?

Okay, so maybe I am pushing my luck a little.  But thus far I have not been struck by lightning, so I figure I might not have angered the big guy too much.  Perhaps the key is just moderation—with the definition of moderation to be determined at a later time.  Maybe the better answer is not just moderation but gratitude, which is why I believe that far more important than praying for shoe forgiveness is shoe tithing.  If for every shoe I get to indulge, I give back a portion to those without, maybe my shoe addiction is not so bad after all. 

Yes, one day I might have some explaining to do outside the pearly gates.  I can only hope that my prayers of forgiveness have been heard and considered…and if St. Peter needs a little convincing a pair of cute shoes might do the trick.

No app can replace the feel of a great pair of heels on your feet. Photo by Jean Thornton

During a meeting the other day, I discovered that ‘screens’ just about outnumbered the actual people in the meeting. 

Blackberry screens, I-phone screens, laptop screens and tablet screen, all glowing and zipping along far faster than those behind them.  As their owners—or those owned by these screens—tapped and poked at them, I could not help but be ashamed that my own Blackberry was consta

 ntly drawing my attention away from the meeting and to an update I probably didn’t really need.  Well…I did need to know about that shoe sale starting in mere minutes. 

But shoe sales aside, I think I might be hitting a technological wall.  Maybe I am getting old; perhaps I am little outdated; you could even call me old-fashioned.   But I think technology should be put on hold before it takes over too much of my life. 

 I am grateful for all that technology has offered me.  Technology has allowed me to be very to the point without being rude.  I can text message to avoid an awkward conversation on the phone.  I can email an insanely brief message from my Blackberry with a cute little tagline that automatically forgives it being incredibly short.  I can even Tweet a quick line out on any topic from my nail polish color to primary results.

And yes, it is nice that I can catch up on my favorite television shows by waving a magic wand at the box beneath my flat screen, high definition television.  By the way, a warning to some of you folks on that high definition television: technology is not being kind to you or your pores.??? Technology has made watching a movie as simple as clicking, getting rid of those last minute movie rental runs and those delicious gooey treats so conveniently located next to the register. 

Okay, so you can make a black & white movie on your phone.  But didn’t Paul Simon write a whole song about the joys of color film?  Remember those nice bright colors?  Sharing photographs used to mean sitting next to someone and passing actual pictures back and forth; now they slide across a screen.  It is amazing that I can see my niece wearing the outfit I sent her on my phone, but maybe that just provides another excuse to not see her in person.   

 I fear technology might be going too far.  Technology is starting to cause a whole rash of extinctions.  The aforementioned video store is one; now the Post Office could be on the chopping block; and books are the next piece of nostalgia at risk.  Why wait in line for stamps when you can email?  Why turn pages when you can simply tap them along? 

 I will tell you why!  Because today it’s a screen tap and tomorrow it’s another experience.  Today you have a digital camera; tomorrow you have a digital handbag.  The next thing we know that app that tells you where the closest shoe store is, may try to replace the actual experience of trying on shoes.  I don’t know about you, but I cannot imagine any piece of technology replacing the feel of a fresh Manolo Blahnik. 

When I go to bed tonight, while my Blackberry might only rest a few inches from head, I will take greater comfort that my stilettos are resting just as near.  Sure, technology might make the digital world closer, but it’s better have my world right where I can touch it or put it on my feet.

Spring Breakers might prefer flip flops but this older shoe girl can afford Manolo's. Photo by Jean Thorton

I am on Spring Break this week; well, I am actually on someone else’s Spring Break.  Living on a tourist island which also offers warm weather when many other parts of the continental United States do not, often means that I am frequently running into vacationers.  For the most part vacationers are pretty harmless folks.  In fact, most of them just want to be like us ‘locals’.  They want to drink in our bars, lounge on our beaches, and dine on our fresh catches… yet they do not seem to want to pay our high rents.  Either way, they clearly have a desire to briefly live the life that we experience daily.

Yet, some times of the year seem to provide more than our fair share of guests.  Spring Break is one of those times.  Seniors from both ends of the spectrum—those being college seniors and some being senior citizens—and oddly both groups are extremely susceptible to the lure of an all-you-can-eat buffet.  This is a time when parking spots become limited, bars become crowded, and traffic becomes a feasible defense for a charge of murder.  It is no surprise that many locals find themselves choosing a porch swing over their favorite bars that have suddenly become the college of the week hangout. 

This shoe girl cannot help but see her greater age reflected in the lack of age amongst the younger spring breakers.  As I write this next to my open living room window, I have heard four different body parts be discussed as groups of college students make their way downtown.   All four of these body parts I would not discuss outside of a doctor’s office, let alone on the way to dinner. 

But it is not just the difference in what is appropriate conversation for an evening stroll, but in so many other areas as well.  For example, as an older shoe girl I understand that neon does not look good anybody.  I also do not find extreme joy in honking a scooter horn, or any horn for that matter, as I drive down the street.  And I have not found a need to shout a chant of any sort that proclaims some combination of Greek letters as the best while drinking in a bar.

These temporary guests to my little island serve as a reminder that we are all young once.  And sure a few of these visitors might end up passed out in a flower bed or maybe leave an abandoned flip flop….or some other garment on the doorstep of a local.  Most of us will turn a blind eye and smile with a little smirk, remembering when we were young-er. 

As I witness their drunken walks of shame in the morning while I get ready to go to my job, I can rest assured in the knowledge that someday they will be me. Because as much as it pains me to admit it…I used to be them.  And while they will only be visiting for a few days, their hard earned money (or that of their parents’) will remain behind.  So as another Spring Break season flies by, I say, “Have fun, Future of America; just please keep it down when you’re walking home.  Some of us have work tomorrow.”