The Shoes That Take Possession: It Wasn't Me, The Heels Did It

I hate valet parking. The entrance to the parking garage was twenty feet away. I was pretty good at getting my vehicle between the lines, and pretty light on my feet, but no matter. I sighed and slipped on my heels, because nobody can drive in those kind of heels.

They were the kind of heels that transform a person. They take possession. One minute you are the sort of woman that doesn’t go places without children and hates valet parking. Then those four inch heels slip onto the feet with their buckles clasped and—

Bam!

The next minute a mother with the persona of a normal adult woman steps out of her vehicle with a certain twist in her step, muttering: I’m back!

I walked into the resort through freakishly posh looking doors with ridiculously long door handles, which were whisked open for me. At the reception desk sat a woman with blindingly white teeth and hair in perfect ringlets. I was sure those sort of springs would bounce off her head if tested. She began to tell me where to go to find my party.

Her description was elaborate, but I just kept thinking about those ringlets. Yep, those things just need one little pull back and they would hit the ceiling.

Suddenly her talking stopped, and she concluded it with a hand gesture to the left. I had no idea what she said, but decided it was an excellent day to wing it. The heels, in possession of me, walked me in the direction of that hand gesture.

I found the party. There I stood with a bunch of other writers and I felt fancy. Maybe it was the heels, maybe it was the view of the ocean glistening right outside those big glass windows—windows I had walked by many times, from the other, not fancy, side.

Someone Up Front Began a Speech

She was thanking us for our contributions, et cetera, but slowly the scene of fancy surroundings faded. That’s the thing about possession by heels—they just can’t take all of a person. A bit of free will remains. And so my normal adult woman persona began to fade a bit as I thought about real life back at home.

I thought about the carpets in one half of the house decorated with a maze-like trail of diarrhea. The solids were removed, but the stains remained, awaiting the carpet cleaner. The smell lingered despite my best efforts at cajoling it away, like a defiant toddler shouting “no!” when told it is time to leave the park.

I suddenly had an image of how it all went down: there was Big Dog, guts full to bursting, and no one home to allow him to relieve himself in the comfort of his outdoor toilet—the wide expanse of grass. Instead, he decided he’d better find a surface comparable to grass. Despite all the main living quarters being made of tile, of course he would need to soil the carpet.

I shouldn’t do it! I shouldn’t do it! He chastises himself. Oh god, it’s coming! Oh no, must make it stop, must make it stop! Big Dog then begins to run in circles through my husband’s carpeted office, splattering poop in elegant swirls covering the available floor space, in addition to some nearby furniture.

He then casts a look back at his rear end and thinks: Oh no! The poop is chasing me! And in a panic he abandons the office, yelping as he dashes down the hall and enters the children’s room. The poop proceeds to chase him as he makes loop-de-loop poop art all over their floor, which splashes onto the closet doors, on top of various toys, and several of the tot’s lovely dresses.

Suddenly a Woman Said My Name

My head jerked to attention as I processed her mentioning my writing. I made a polite nod, no doubt looking like every kid that has ever been caught daydreaming in class. The speech ended, and the people disbursed once more. The heels had me again, and they walked me to the open bar, like a proper heels wearing normal woman.

I eyed a woman standing next to me with a champagne glass and a popsicle sitting in it—a gourmet eight dollar popsicle from a local shop in a very fancy part of town. The mother in me shouted internally: We will take one of those in every flavor, but hold the champagne. The heels tapped testily, so instead we accepted both popsicle and that sad, bubbly alcoholic liquid.

I Started to Drift Back Again into Mother Territory

I remembered my conversation earlier with a friend who, not surprisingly, had decided she could no longer keep her hen on her apartment balcony. She brought it over to join my flock in a cat carrier with her boyfriend in tow.

“What is the chicken’s name?” I asked as we walked through my property to the coop.

“Sex,” the boyfriend answered. It was in the same sort of way someone would say “Sally” or “Sam,” which seemed quite natural given his many piercings and air of eccentricity.

I glanced downward at the children trotting behind me.

“Okay, we will probably change that,” I said quite naturally also, like maybe we really disliked common names like Sally or Sam.

“She also goes by Pecker.”

“Oh, well isn’t that contradictory.” I said it like maybe he had suggested it would rain when the sky was clear.

It was an hour after he left that I realized he was not referring to male anatomy, but actually “One that pecks.”

I Finished My Gourmet Popsicle

Enough daydreaming, let’s do this already! The heels were growing antsy. With sad, bubbly champagne as a hand ornament, the heels and I took that room on—one conversation at a time. We worked that room, those fancy heels and I.

And we had absolutely no idea what we did with the valet ticket. We hate valet parking.