Will Work For Shoes

Will Work For Shoes

 

At the risk of sounding like an absolute moron, one of the things that disturbs me about my new life as a divorce, is the fact that I will have to work. I don’t mean to sound like a Premadonna; it’s not like I haven’t worked. In fact, I was a robust realtor for the past fourteen years juggling a home, children and playing a dutiful spouse. I had a slew of loyal clients and customers: clients hire you paying a substantial commission to do a job; customers are inadvertently paying you for your service by a slightly inflated sales price that reflects your potential commission when you find them a home. Someone has to pay. So I did work, don’t get me wrong. I labored driving through mazes of several counties to find the right home for my customer and I prepared a client’s homes with staging techniques and marketed their property until it sold. I was rewarded by my job, never seeing it as a mundane or a forced requirement, rejoicing in people’s achievement to own their own home.

My new role of living alone is not only isolationist but has brought me grudgingly to the responsibility of paying my own bills. Let’s face it, real estate is a commission based industry and that is not stable income. Sometimes, I sell a home that does not settle or pay a stealthy check for the next thirty to sixty days. If it’s a new home, only God and the builder are the ultimate all knowing to when I’ll get paid. To the landlord, the electric company and the gas company none of this toil is their concern.

When I was married, dinner and life with a paycheck was stable, so I was able to be a commissioned agent without the worries of “Will this check bounce?”, “Can I afford Montessori school for my youngest daughter?” and most of all “Can I buy those pair of shoes?”

Shoes and handbags are an extension of a woman’s persona. It sounds trivial but true. Thus the demand for high end luxuries. Even in the sagging drudges of a slow economy there are two things that remain steadfast: 1. Consumers still want an array of accessories; 2. Plastic surgery. I’ve never been one of those candidates to splurge on the purses or shoes with lavish designer names or outrageous price tags (yikes, some shoes over $600 for names I can’t even pronounce), but I did enjoy the ability to flaunt my personal collection of accessories: each with magnificent hues and details. I was always a careful shopper getting my loot form discount stores. But if I calculate the amount of money I’ve spent on my arsenal, I would have been better off to acquire one of the fancier name brand purses or heels.

I’m not Nora Ephron who will not and does not submit to the lap of luxury and has an aversion to a purse or shoe; I don’t care if my heels are a deterrent to my mobility. In my line of work and the aura of success I’ve established, whether it’s my black patent 31/4 inch heels (any higher and I’d look like an Amazon, already a stealthy 5’8” woman) or my Tory Burch sandals for play, I like my shoes. I’ve made a special nook in the closet-my ex would argue it was half the closet, for my shoes. A splendid array of shoes and handbags lined up for personal display. I’m not being facetious, I’m simply telling you that this simple luxury I took for granted is now a menacing reality.

Friends like to say that I should be happy to be more responsible. But what I think they are trying to say without sounding curt is, “Welcome to the land of what we have to sacrifice.” A land that I was somewhat unfamiliar with having abandoned my era where I was without most of the time. It’s as though my living this life was and should be met with severe punishment.

Poverty is not foreign to me. Neither is hard work. In my younger years, I worked in the confines of malls as a sales person, I’ve mowed other people’s lawns and I’ve babysat neighbors kids. I am not afraid of hard work. I never imagined however that all that work and the current status I attained would filter to nothing and silent resentment from others who think I took it all for granted, even calling me spoiled.

That I should now penalized for living life and all of its material pleasures is absurd. I know the cluster of homeless people and the victims of war that have much more to fret over than a pair of shoes. I’ve donated to those vacant faces relieving my conscious with a silent tap on my back, rewarding myself for my philanthropy. Now, though I am not homeless, not yet, I am pushed to face the reality of how good I had it.

In my current rental, the closets weigh in on me, because there is hardly room for my clothes, let alone my shoes. This is more depressing because I find I have to donate or give away my least used bags and shoes. I ration, who needs all of this stuff with my new life? I do. I need them because they are a reminder of what once was good. The temporary pleasure I derived from being independent and able to splurge from my own funds on what I wanted.

            Now in an unstable future, I am resigned to the notion that I cannot afford those luxuries. I am forced to do what I have avoided to do: Self-Discovery. And that sucks.