The Sound of One Shoe Shopping

I once attended a church where they resolved the old Buddhist co-an about the sound of one hand clapping by applauding silently with one hand stuck in the air making little wafting motions, like traffic police for fairies, I used to think but never said. It made a polite acknowledgment of appreciation without the usual un-churchy sort of hand clapping you'd want to give if you were in a club. Now I go to a church where after certain songs or talks we sound exactly as if we're in a club, including foot stomping and whooping. I love it.

One hand clapping is odd enough, but I've been perusing a "single shoe only" website all morning and I'm cross eyed. I'm having to shoe shop for my daughter whose feet require mismatched shoe sizes. This time it's harder because we're not buying generic tennies or sandals at a cheap outlet where we can splurge on two pairs of shoes just to get one pair that fits her properly without going broke. She'd like a nice dressy pair for a wedding. There's a size and half difference between her two feet and one is a little slender in the heel too, so the style has to be carefully considered. Sling-backs would, for example, be tantamount to a guaranteed visit to the er with serious stitches if not broken bones from a certain trip and fall. Alas, she already does those very well thank you, without the help of shoes.

This search led a friend to refer me to a shoe site she thought would be helpful on ebay. It's dedicated to those who need only one shoe. If you're lucky, you might find a single pair of mismatched sizes and save a tidy sum. Especially if you're looking for Prada or Manolo Blah-blahs, which sell on ebay for a mere $99 per shoe !! Well, we're not quite in that market, and I began to wonder who would be? Perhaps I'm off base here (and it wouldn't be the first time) but if your shoe budget is in the $100 plus range, per shoe, then you'd probably be able to afford a prosthetic copy of the other leg/foot, if you wanted to match the appearance of your bi- ped peer group, in which case buying a whole pair in the first place would make sense. As it is, the site doesn't make sense to mismatched sized shoppers unless there's an equal selection of left and right shoes, but, mysteriously, that doesn't seem to be the case. I'm thinking then, that the factory must have damaged or overrun some of the shoes in production and they're hoping to recoup some of the loss before a total write-off, to which I say good luck buddy. Not all the shoes were $99, to be fair, there were some un-designer offerings as low as $6 each, but unless there are rights as well as lefts, those solo Manolo's may be destined to whatever fate has in store for unclaimed halves of a pair. I'm trying hard not to imagine a cartoon version of The After Life of Footwear with a featured song (with apologies to Fats Domino): "My Shoe Heaven."

I so appreciate that my friend had only the best of intentions in referring me to ebay, bless her, but I'm still shoeless and left with more questions - maybe I should refer my dilemma to a Buddhist minded teacher for further consideration. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is one thing, but I'm not at all sure about this one shoe shop stop. Will the shoe drop before I do?

Ye Olde Country

Last night, I was laughing so hard in bed, I had to leap out of it and run downstairs where I let the tears and guffaws flow freely, without disturbing my partner, who, as I now realize too late, could probably snooze uninterrupted through a total bedroom remodel. I might just as well have snorted and heaved in the comfort of the bed. However, the culprit, an endearing and hilarious tome about life in Britain, "Notes From a Small Island" by Bill Bryson an American who lived there for 20 years, was down to its final few pages. I couldn't not finish it right then and there and I suspected, and I was right (that's nice for a change) that as much howling laughter as there was, it would likely be balanced by some sentimental weepy bits at the end and I wanted ample tissues and nose blowing room without having to explain myself. So downstairs I stayed, where the sofa doesn't get the same rapid fire hiccup motion going as when I laugh in bed. Nothing makes it worse than trying NOT to explode when the funny bone gets a good whack, so for the sake of maintaining the integrity of my spine and rib cage alignment, I felt justified in abandoning my partner for an hour at midnight.

After reading about Bryson's experiences and why he loves the Brits so, I began to realize why I've struggled so hard to enjoy living in other places. I've managed to adapt, yes, but have I really loved where I'm living? No, honestly not. What a relief to understand why, at long last. Having been an ex-pat for lo these past 43 years, I've often wondered why I felt bereft and forlorn and out of place. It's not just that there's really no place like home, no matter how dysfunctional it might have been (mine was about a 4 on the Richter scale with 8 being reserved for households like Frank McCourt's)there's no country quite like the British Isles and no people on earth to match the eccentric natives thereof. So it turns out I've simply been homesick all these years.

Alas, I no longer own a key that fits the lock of any dwelling place in the name of myself or family. On visits there of course I'd find friends and family who'd let me doss down for a few nights, but it's not the same. It hit me: there's no going back home, period. But since it's a nice place to visit, I hope to do so sooner than later. Meanwhile, I'll have to brush up on my Glaswegian, since Bryson's visit to a Glasgow pub, far and away the funniest episode in the whole book, reminded me how out of touch I've become, and how linguistically rich is my family's heritage. So I'm getting ready, I think, finally, to worship at some of the old ancestral shrines, unless they're in seedy pubs, which a few of them are. I've not been "home" since my parents died in recent years and I've been pouting in a most unbecoming way about being a homeless orphan, poor wee thing, which of course I am not really, except for brief moments on the therapist's couch. I'll be breaking in my renewed passport in Canada next week, but second stop has to be the Olde Country methinks.