Quickly turning to view the woman retreating from the Palomar Shell building toward the pump islands, I expected to see at least exposed sagging flesh or leopard print. Instead, she had on some close fitting jeans, not tight enough to bind or reveal a lot of details, on a slim, toned body. She was wearing two layers of t-shirt with the bottom longer than the top, in the fashion. Also snug, but over a torso with an honest to god waistline. She had yummy, thick, dark hair that came just below her shoulders. From the rear view, she was ageless. I would have guessed 30 maybe. If she were nearing middle age the whole package, from my perspective, was only enough to make me think "You go girl." Perhaps the bubble gum pink t-shirt had an immodest decolletage'... or a picture of Hello Kitty on it?
"What is wrong," I asked Sam, "with what she is wearing?"
"The glittery sneakers."
Stunned. Not because I had missed them entirely, but because I couldn't for the life of me understand what is wrong with glittery sneakers at any age. What?
"They're for kids."
So there is to be no shoe fun for the aged. Lemme' tell ya. If I didn't have more urgent things to spend on and found a pair of red sequin chucks in my size, I would so be wearing them. Red. Pink. Turquoise. I could entertain the objection if they were, say, high heeled sneakers. But what the hell? Who made this rule? Sam was not backing down. So all night I mused aloud about what color glitter I might have at home and if Alene's fabric glue would make it stick to my old K-Swiss.
