Spray-Painted Shoes

When you're in the midst of growing up nothing seems more important than what is happening at the exact moment that you either find something super cool, way not cool, tragic (like realizing that you don't have the right color shoes to match that perfect dress) or if so-and-so maybe sorta glanced your way in First Period that day. I always feel silly when I look back and remember how much importance I put on the most inconsequential things in my teens but nonetheless they were very important to me at that time. It's occurred to me over the last few years (the word few might mean over twenty) that some of those moments still clung to the dusty corners of my mind but not because they scarred me or were so relevant that they left a searing imprint on my soul - they actually crept back in slowly and sneakily when I would be thinking of things like how clever my mom could be at times when at that same moment I'm looking for double sided tape to temporarily hem my kids pants. Or, the memory pokes it's head around the nearest corner, points and laughs at me when I'm whining about how I wish I could just quickly fix something for my own daughter with the ingenuity that my mom used on my then currently horrifying teen predicament. Sometimes the memories feel more like cute anecdotes that happened to have permanently stained the "oh yeah? Well, here's my story..." lobe of my brain. It's weird because what seemed to be long-gone events never to be "heard" from again can sometimes manage to come rushing back so vividly it can take your breath away.


The spray-paint memory was one that had crept back to me from the far recesses of my brain in comparing stories with my co-workers over the years but only in one aspect. My mom actually re-reminded me of that particular memory just recently. When I thought of writing about the spray-paint and how it spruced up the car my sister and I inherited for the last few years it clung to life by it's proverbial toenails, I also remembered how a can or two saved events in my life from a dance all the way up to that car (the term "car" is very generous).  Mama specifically brought up the car which I'll get to later - I would like to tell you about how a few basic colors of spray paint can save your daughters big dance (her first dance and even all the way to her prom if needed).  That's right folks, for just $9.99 plus shipping and handling you will receive praise and appreciation from your teenager.  But wait, there's more!  You will also receive adoration and respect from your hormone-crazed, irrational, self-absorbed daughter for one important evening. *Results may vary.  These results have not been approved by the FDA or any other three letter organizations. Using this product will appear to help your kid but more importantly it will really save you money but said kid will think you are a freakin' super hero.  Here's my story about how a can of cream, black and silver spray paint helped me through life...


Every female, no matter what the age, has a favorite pair of shoes. I was no exception to that rule.  Actually I believe we all have a favorite pair of shoes in several different categories. Anyway, my favorite dress shoes will, in my attempt to help you conjure up a visual,  probably sound quite hideous and witchy, begging you to wonder why not even one over-sized-lollipop eating short person didn't drop a house on me.  The heel height was perfect for someone of my age that walked like a drunk deer and were actually made for someone who's feet are so thin it's like having thumbs for feet (other than dress shoes I can wear multiple pairs of socks to fill the void on either side of my feetsies).  They had a slightly pointy toe and a tiny up-curve at the tip.  It had delicate diamond shapes cut out around the foot-hole (foot-hole...that sounds weird.  Foot-place?  Shoe cave?  Eh, the place you stick your foot into that secures shoes to your feet) and...you know, I think I'll stop there as they sincerely sound icky even to my ears because I lack the proper verbiage to make them sound cute.  The shoes were adorable I promise you.  Because I adored these shoes so much and the style went with all types of dresses of the mid to late 80's trends I counted on them an awful lot.  They weren't the fanciest of styles but when one of my very important dances came up I wanted to wear them (note:  all of my dances seemed very important to me and also, I can't remember if I just had to wear those shoes or if my mom said "you'll wear them and like it!").  How badly I wanted to wear them is a memory I can't seem to quite see clearly but what I do remember is that the shoes started out black (absolutely not matching my dress) and were transformed by my mom into a cream color that complemented my slightly burgundy dress with cream lace overlay on the bodice.  I'm not sure how, but she even made sure each of the tiny diamond cut-outs didn't have any black edges showing and there was NO paint inside the shoe.  I know...amazing right?!  How did she do it?  What type of magic was this?  Let me tell you...I did not...at the least...give a CRAP!  It worked, the shoes were perfect and the dance was great (I think.  I only remember the shoes and that they played Bryan Adams and I was happy.).  The shoes went back to black with some more of my mom's wonder-paint at some point and my sister "took" them from me but we both learned that you only have a finite amount of times you can change the color of leather without watching them crack and peel with every step you take.  Personally I like to think I willed it to happen since they weren't adorning my feet anymore.


At some point my sister and I turned 16 years old (important note:  my sister turned sixteen several minutes before me and continues to remain the elder of us) and just like most teenagers, we were dying to get our drivers license too.  Also like most teenagers, we didn't care what we drove as long as we had something.  Well, we got something...old.  My parents graced us with the car they were retiring from their inventory and we gladly took it.  When you give a teenager a car that ages at a normal rate when driven by two responsible adults over many, many years you will notice a quickening of the aging process when that  same car is handed over to anyone under the age of twenty or so.  That poor car went from just old to decrepit in the course of two years...or less.  They no longer make the Oldsmobile Omega (our friends dubbed it the Omega Moose for some reason) but they were good cars.  Ours had a gray body with a black, faux-leather top and a gray interior and until my sister and I got our hands on it it looked pretty darn good.  Eventually we added some dancing bear stickers and other stupid stuff on it while at the same time the paint job got worse and worse.  Apparently my mom was in the midst of a spray-painting craze and decided that her silver can of paint matched pretty close to the gray body of the car and surprised us by "touching it up" a bit.  I like to think she kind of bedazzled it in her own way with tonal polka-dots!  Well, it added character and though it didn't save a dance like the shoes did it made it's own magic by giving us a wonderful memory.  I wonder what else she spray-painted?  Funny, someone actually paid my parents a few dollars for that car when my sister and I went off to college.  I wonder how long it took them to realize that they had to be accelerating to make the headlights work?  My sister and I were very talented at stopping at the correct distance from a stoplight so that we could move up every few seconds so the headlights would come on.  I especially liked the idea my dad came up with when the interior roof material started drooping - he put little screws into the interior to pin up the material giving it a very plush look if you ask me.  We were stylin'!  That car served us well and only frustrated us when the windows stopped rolling up...or down...depending on the cars mood that day.  May the Omega Moose rest in peace.


Those are just some of my wonderful memories and all that's left to say is that I wish for each and every one of you a spray-painted life.