There are two shopping experiences that, when they go badly, are guaranteed to reduce me to tears. One is bra shopping (there is not a woman on the planet that enjoys bra shopping!) and the other one is shopping for running shoes.

For some reason, I have a strong emotional attachment to being fitted well in both of these scenarios and I often make the effort to seek out professional advice and fitters. I’m willing to pay for a premium product and to have expert sales assistance. Although it’s beyond me why all sales assistants can’t be “experts”…I mean, you’ve got one job…to be an expert and sell me your product? Right?

In a previous life, I worked in retail. For the better part of a decade it was my actual job to know what I was selling, to advise you and to even try and sell you more of something that you probably never came in to buy in the first place (shock horror). For a few of those years I sold shoes. I’ve sold shoes to everybody, from children to drag queens (both were equally fun customers who I adored). So I know what makes a good fit in a shoe and the techniques you need to make it fit properly. I know about wiggle room and I know how to measure feet. What I don’t know, or struggle with, is getting a running shoe to fit me properly. It’s just a service I want to get from someone else. Someone who is meant to know more than me.

As I’ve aged I’ve started to have serious problems with lace-up shoes. If the laces are too tight or in the wrong position I get numb toes and sore feet. It can feel like my toes are piling up on top of each other and it’s excruciating to un-pile them when I take the shoe off. It’s just bad news.

How I think I’ll look when I start running

I’ve decided to take up running. Or at least fast walking…I haven’t decided yet! So naturally I need a good pair of treads that aren’t going to make my running goal more of a chore than it will inevitably be in the beginning (let’s face it, mama don’t need another excuse not to run!). I’ve been putting it off and putting it off. Both the running and the shoe buying! But today was going to be the day. I researched a running shoe shop that specialized in podiatry fitting and off I went. Ready to be expertly fitted and shown a host of running shoes that will fit my feet so I can be pounding the pavement by dinner (right before wine o’clock).

I didn’t really have a budget in mind and I don’t really care too much what they look like. I just want them to be comfortable and I want them to make me want to run because they’re so freakin’ fabulous and I’m spending all this time and emotion to get them in my life. So off I went to this running shoe shop.

As soon as I walked in I saw a wall of 30 to 40 shoes in blindingly fast colours (I assume the colours make you go faster?) and two treadmills that were set up with gear to check my gait and all that stuff. Signs were good that I’d be handing over my credit card shortly.

The sales guys comes and says hello, asks me some qualifying questions, I start to explain about my lacing issues and then he takes me over the to the multi-colour shoe wall. He’s talking me through the pros and cons of certain shoes, and at this point I’m thinking, “I don’t need to hear all these details, just take a look at my feet and show me a pair of shoes that won’t hurt.” I’m the first to admit I’m an impatient shopper. If I’ve spent time researching a specialist store and then driven out of my way…that’s time enough in my book. I know what I want and I just want help to buy it. The quicker the better. My therapy is wine not retail (for future reference!).

Next he asks me to take my shoes and socks off so he can see what my feet are doing when I walk. My first thought is to panic because I’m between pedicures and my toenails are frightful…but I pulled my focus back to the practical not the pretty. My treadmill test doesn’t seem to tell him much and all I learn is that I definitely need to up my fitness game, as I huff and puff my way back to my seat to quickly cover my lack of pedicure.

Then he measures my feet to confirm what I told him. I’m Mrs Average. 8.5 US in women’s sneakers. He heads out the back to find some shoes for me and I seize the opportunity to take some sneaky shop video with the intention of giving them some social media love just as soon as I have the new treads in my life.

He returns with two styles of running shoes for me to try. Neither of them is very comfortable and I start to explain my issues again. It was at this point that I decided to ask a qualifying question of my own. Was he familiar with my particular problem? (high arches perhaps? numb toes? more than two glasses of red wine a day…you know, standard life challenges). He admitted he wasn’t. Then he suggested I visit a podiatrist before visiting their store. I was a bit perplexed because their website says, among other assurances, that they “combine the best in motion analysis technology with expert podiatric trained staff to ensure that the appropriate footwear is selected for every customers fitness needs”. So I actually thought I was in the right place. Not just some chain store selling mass-produced Made in Vietnam leisure shoes.

As soon as he suggested I visit a podiatrist I realised that my credit card would not be leaving my purse and the 90 minutes I’d spent researching this store before I left home, driving to the store and actually visiting the store were wasted. Not to mention the planned social media post that I deleted the minute I walked out the door. I don’t do hate posts and try not to whinge too often.*

I started my quick-walk-maybe-running training right then and there as I left that store and headed back to my car just as fast as my old shoes would carry me. I sat in the car park for about 10 minutes on the verge of tears (yep, totally melodramatic. Told you I was emotionally invested in these bloody running shoes) just feeling defeated and like I was the problem. My feet are just too tricky to fit. But that’s fucking ridiculous. My feet aren’t tricky. I don’t have special needs. And I’m not the problem. The service was the problem. The promise on their website of expert advice and attention was the problem.

As I said, I acknowledge that I am an impatient shopper, especially when it comes to things that I actually need, like running shoes. I don’t have a lot of spare time. I’m very busy and important. I’m a mother for Christ’s sake! So when I want to buy something for myself I want to be in and out and I want it to be efficient. I don’t need to have small talk to loosen me up or to get me to buy stuff. I’m already in your shop. I’m ready to buy your stuff. Just show me your products, show me that you are knowledgeable so I can trust you and I will buy, simple as that.

So, mama still needs a new pair of running shoes…and new bras come to think of it. But I think I’ll put that off for a little while.

*I’m fully aware of the irony of this sentence. That’s why I have a blog. So I can tell you all about the minutiae of my life. Even when it’s a thinly veiled whinge when I feel like it…which this post most certainly is. My story. My life. My rules.

In 1987 my mother took my sister and I to Sydney for a week. We took the bus from Adelaide because Mum couldn’t afford the plane tickets. Mum wanted to show us Sydney because she was thinking of moving us there for a better life. My sister and I weren’t convinced. In fact we were ardently opposed to the idea. At 14 and 15 you can imagine why.

We stayed at a friend’s place. Someone my mum knew through work, so no one we knew really. They had a rambling townhouse in Glebe. It was comfortable enough except that they had no TV and this was a problem for me.

The week we were in Sydney was the same week that Jeff Fenech was fighting Greg ‘the Flea’ Richardson and I wanted to watch it. Yes. I was a 15-year-old boxing fan. I’ve always loved boxing. Don’t ask me why. I’m not a violent person but there’s something about boxing that has always enthralled me. And no one more so than the Marickville Mauler, Fenech.

So mum, doing her best to make the trip a good experience for us in spite of our protests, rented me a television. It was an old box style TV that was delivered on a stand to the house. We had it for one day and it probably cost about $100. This is 1987. Before the Internet. Before Aldi was even thought of and discount TVs were decades away from being on the shelves.

I have no memory of watching that boxing match. But I do remember that TV and how my Mum rented it just for me when she couldn’t even afford the airfares from Adelaide to Sydney.

Mum died 14 years ago today. But it’s memories like this one and random things like televised boxing matches that keep her close.

I love this quote that has been doing the rounds on social media this past year: “Unfuck Yourself. Be who you were before all that stuff happened that dimmed your fucking shine.” You can find it everywhere and it’s largely unattributed but Padhia Avocado (surely she made up that name!), a street artist and writer in LA said it first (even if she did spell Fuk wrong). You can read more about her here.

Whenever it crops up on my social media it gives me pause. I don’t consider myself fucked up (not most days anyway) but I do think I’m burdened with an awful lot of excess baggage that I happily use to carry the opinions of others in.

It’s these opinions and supposed assessments of me that stop me being completely carefree in my life. And the barrage of media ‘reality’ that I tune into daily doesn’t help either. I’ve become much better at not giving a fuck these past 12 months, since I’ve learnt to light my own fire, but I have to work at it. I think anyone does. I’ve spent too much time listening to the haters, the nay-sayers and the doubters and I’m finally turning that energy around to put it to work for me. I’ve realised that diving into the complex, insecure and small worlds of the unnecessary opinionated just causes me more stress. If I keep things simple and stick to my own lane, I’m less anxious, less stressed and can work on my shine.

But I have wondered lately, when was it that all this “stuff” happened to me. When did I actually start to give a fuck about what complete strangers thought of me or what I was doing with my life? When did I become so self-conscious that being a happy and healthy size 14 (and bigger) wasn’t good enough? When did I actually start giving credence to the opinions of others and why do they even matter?

As we go along in life we acquire layers. Layers and layers of life. Layers that get put on us or layers that we choose to put on. How we wear our layers is a combination of genetics, life circumstance and our own sense of wellbeing.

When I was a little kid I had no issue wearing a bikini. I was happy to strike a silly pose for my parent’s camera without asking to immediately see it back (not that cameras had that ability in 1975). I was also pretty damn happy to run around the house sans clothing of any description.

In a nutshell, I was carefree…and not just because it was the 70s and “social media” was having the TV on while we were gathered as a family at dinner (ahhh simple times, remember them?). No, my lack of inhibitions was because I quite literally was care free. All my needs were taken care of by my parents and the biggest worry I had was learning to ride a bike or master my new roller-skates (neither of which I did very well!).

And then I started school and the world at-large entered my world at-play. I met other kids who needed me to be a certain way so that we could play. I met teachers who expected things from me so they could report that my education was on track. I had to learn to sit quietly, to listen and participate when asked and to play nicely and share and dress appropriately and tie my own shoelaces. All of which are perfectly normal and not unreasonable expectations, I guess. But as the years marched on it became a natural inclination to do as I was told, not question the adults and make sure I didn’t upset too many people. Basically I acquired a few layers to make sure I complied.

Heading into my adult years my life and thoughts were pervaded by un-reality. The images and stories I’d read in magazines, on television in movies and in the last decade, social media. Which only exacerbated my need to seek the opinion or validation of others. And quite honestly, I don’t know why. Why was my own opinion and my own standards not enough to measure my success and happiness with?

I have a love hate relationship with social media. It’s almost impossible to be in business without it. I have to use it. It’s simply the way of my world today. But as I use it I have to try really, really hard not to burden myself with unnecessary layers.

The social media lens is ridiculous. I’m not a fan of perfectly cultivated selfies that have been filtered to within an inch of their high cheek bone duck pout BUT at the same time I’m totally guilty of taking 20 selfies to find just one that I settle on before also applying a filter to shade my 45 year old puffy eyes to perfection!

So, it’s a challenge this unfuck yourself business. It’s hard not care and honestly, I don’t care if I waver in my purity of unfucking myself. I’m far from perfect. So what if I compare myself to an unrealistic ideal from time to time? If it helps me strive for something more in my life, then good on me… but the minute it makes me feel rubbish because that bloody filter can’t be applied in real life…then I need to give myself a stern talking to.

The bottom line is. It’s my life. My rules. I’ll unfuck myself if I want to and I reserve the right to rewrite my own story at any stage.

Don’t you think?

JOIN ME & SIMPLY KIM READERS FOR SUNDAY LUNCH
September 10, Federation Sq, Melbourne

If you can relate to this post, and have ever felt less at a time when you thought you should feel more, then join us for lunch (this blog is turning one so the champagne will be on me).

Let’s get together and lift each other up, share secrets and enjoy some fine food with the company of people just like YOU.

I am also beyond thrilled that maverick, vigilante and non-fuck giver extraordinaire Catherine Deveny will join our soiree to offer her special brand of inspiration.

READ MORE HERE…

If ever there was a pair of shoes calling my name it’s these babies. Fucking wonder woman pointed gold flats. There is nothing I don’t love about them. I’m even looking past the fact that they are pure PVC (or “vegan” as the hipsters call it these days).

Not only are they soft, flexible and comfy but they smell like bubble gum and feel like success because they’re fucking Wonder Woman. Sorry, I’m repeating myself (and my expletives) but that’s how much joy this simple purchase has brought to me in the space of 5 minutes. I’ve even put aside everything on my to-do list this morning to write about my joy immediately.

I can’t believe that just 4 short days ago I was going about my business (of scrolling my Facebook groups aimlessly and connecting here and there with my tribe) when up these popped on the feed. Holy take-my-fucking-money Batman! I was all over that post (which wasn’t sponsored, and neither is this one, as it happens) and Googling just as fast as my non-touch-typist fingers could go. They hit my doorstep a few days later and here I am…in love with a new pair of shoes.

It’s at this point I need to admit that I am a hopeless shopper of fashion. I have zero clue and usually just buy black with something stretchy and vaguely rock’n’roll and leave the shop (in person or online). I’m not even that interested in fashion. One day when I make so much money and I’ve already fed the world’s starving I will pay someone who is interested in fashion to buy my wardrobe and dress me. But that day is not today. Today is for my simple $115 pair of Wonder Woman PVC shoes.

While I’m a hopeless fashion shopper I’m a professional impulse buyer. See something. Like it. Buy it. Which is probably why I’m not a homeowner and drive a beaten up Toyota instead of the Audi that would no doubt suit my personality more.

So these little beauties are my latest impulse buy and I just wanted to spin around, change into Wonder Woman and show them off to you all.

Job done. Happy Friday.

You may like to re-read this post while listening to this:

You can buy them here and read all about the pure PVC goodness of Melissa Bubble Gum scented shoes here

Not sponsored just spreading the good word.