Wore clogs with socks today, and wasn’t even properly embarrassed when the tattoo artist examining my ankle snickered. I mean, the man had a shard of metal through his nose and he was laughing that I had socks on with my clogs. Granted, in some circles, a shank through your nose is considered cool, and in no circles are socks with clogs considered thus. Not even in Germany. But shit, I’m too old for blisters.
Of course, it’s entirely possible he wasn’t laughing at my footwear so much as the noise I made when I attempted to get my foot up on the counter to show him my ankle.
Or maybe it was the way my too-tight pants (which I wore out of principle to remind myself that at one time they fit me and that if I make myself uncomfortable enough I might eat less) essentially spring-loaded my leg to flick back down, once I slid my foot off the counter.
Or maybe it was the way I had to grab the counter to steady myself, when the effort from putting my foot up that high left me just a little lightheaded.
Perhaps when you reach the time in your life when you wear socks with clogs, it means you should stay out of tattoo parlors.