Style is important. I am a fan of style, but today I'm ashamed to admit I made a very poor style choice. Today I accidentally over-complicated my life, a life that, as you know, has NO ROOM for surplus complications. It all started out so well. My husband was able to hang out at home later than usual this morning, which always decreases my overall morning hurry-up-we-need-to-get-out-of-the-house-right-now-so-I'm-not-late-for-work-yet-again routine. He was even able to drop my older son at daycare which rocked because it cut my morning commute in half. Not having to take my kid to daycare allowed me (and the baby) to fly to work. There was no bumper-to-bumper traffic. There was no honking or throwing of middle fingers. No one was cutting anyone off. The road was rage-less. As a result, there was also no crying, fussing, or looping of Old MacDonald because my kid was perfectly content to look out the window and listen to President Obama's Middle East speech. Even he must have known we were making record time. He will only tolerate NPR for so long.
I was amped. Getting to work early (well, early for me, but on time for everyone else) meant I'd be able to snag one of the highly coveted parking spaces in the garage. A garage space meant that I'd be able to load my car with all my work stuff easily and conveniently, as I was recently informed that with my awesome, new job, also comes a not so awesome, very quiet, new office space in another building entirely that I'm responsible for relocating myself to. It's not so bad though. I don't have that much stuff. Relatively. And who doesn't love moving? It's only number three on the list of Life's Most Stressful Activities.
Which brings me to my idiotic fashion sense. Yesterday, I cashed in a gift certificate I got for Mother's Day for a mani/pedi. I chose a light pink. Very Spring. Within seconds of leaving the place I destroyed the mani part, but the pedi part remained intact. And what's the point of having a pedi, if you're not going to show it off, right? Well, in my haste to leave the house this morning (and yes, no matter how much help my husband can give me, I can't seem to chill out all my inherent hysteria, just most of it) I slipped on my super cute, bright orange Dr. Scholl's sandals. You know, the ones with the completely inflexible, wooden, clog-like soles, that loudly slap the bottom of your feet when you walk to announce your imminent arrival to the world? The ones that, if your feet become even remotely sweaty, are impossible to keep on? The ones that should come with a tag that says, "DO NOT USE FOR WALKING"? Yeah, those are the "shoes," if you can even call them that.