“You don’t have to take off your shoes,” the lady said.
It was like Christmas and my birthday rolled into one.
Imagine how such a small thing can mean so much.
I prefer to travel in tennis shoes. They are comfortable enough to be worn for long periods. The drawback is they don’t slip on and off.
That means that besides having to hurry and stuff my laptop and tablet back into my carry-on, grab my purse before it whizzes by, all while holding onto my boarding pass and ID with one hand, I have to go find somewhere to sit to put my shoes back on.
It’s a travel nuisance, but when you have fingers that have a tendency to not cooperate the second you want them to, it seems to be a little more than that. Stress makes my fingers sluggish. Or maybe they just get sluggish when they have to do things I don’t want them to do.
As luck would have it, I had to go home for a few days after three weeks of being here. And again I got the same gift. I began to feel special. Wow! I rated being on the OK-to-not-take-your-shoes-off list.
But returning to New Orleans once again, I was rudely awakened to reality. No more special treatment for you, RA Lady. This time I not only had to remove my shoes, I had to submit to being x-rayed. At least I didn’t have to wear one of those designer gowns they hand out at doctor’s offices and hospitals.
It must have been a fluke, both times. I’d hit the shoe lotto and now I was broke again.
But you know what? After almost two months of being away from home, I’ll take my shoes off and walk barefoot all the way to my gate if they want me to. I’m tired of seeing green grass and green trees out the windows. All the windows. A big green 360.
I want to kick off my tennis shoes and slip on my dancing shoes.
I want to go to a club and hold a drink in my hand.
I want to dance to slow reggae.
I want to feel the dizzy creeping up from my feet all the way to my head.
I want to close my eyes and sway the night away.
I want one more blissfully . . . blissful . . . moondance.