Stiletto Heels In The Sand (Based on Footprints in the Sand, Mary Stevenson)

One starry night a fallen New York yuppie dreamed…

I was hobbling along barefoot in a desert with the Lord, “Enough of this walking. Couldn’t you at least point me toward a Hyatt? What I wouldn’t give for a pair of those ugly biblical sandals at a time like this.” I couldn’t see anything, but I knew something divine was hovering around.


The dark sky flashed pink as rosy haze suddenly rolled across the sky, and the happiest moments of my life were projected onto the billowing clouds.

“Look there’s mom. She held a tray of pink birthday cupcakes entering my bedroom in Seaside. That was our tradition. Cupcakes for breakfast.” Six candles were a blaze as she sang “Happy Birthday.” She was so young and beautiful and her eyes were full of love. I watched them turned to hate as her dementia progressed.

“There I am! A pudgy cherub with big brown eyes and pigtails.” Mr. Pierre, our family poodle, gobbled a glob of pink icing from my tiny hand.

I marched forward on this strange pilgrimage on the burning sand, carefully, placing one foot in front of the other. I noticed two pairs of footsteps were fixed in the sand, despite the wind. “ How strange. There’s no one here but me. Maybe it’s a hallucination. Emergency need for bottled sparkling water.”

A basket of daisies flashed across the clouds. I had just gotten into Harvard College. That’s the code my mother and I had. Now the bells of Memorial Hall were chiming. I was throwing my cap high in the air as a new graduate. Now, that was a day. I recalled how the four years flew by. The images flashed at an accelerated rate.

“Hey, slow down. I can’t make out the pictures. I’m trudging along with no shoes–not even a kitten heel. Without a yak or a camel and I have no desert apparel.” I saw bits and pieces of cherished objects, but they quickly faded— the precious painting of the Impressionist beach scene in my apartment, my dog’s worn polka dot harness, foggy pink eyeglasses thrown haphazardly next to the kitchen sink, great-grandmother’s Fiegle’s tarnished Sabbath candles that I never lit, an antique cobalt blue glass box, a rhinestone evening bag in the shape of a Yorkie, mother’s old tortoise shell powder compact. I looked down at the sand and saw two sets of footsteps. Maybe I’ll run into two pairs of Prada pumps to fill them. Size 6. Only one pair would do….

Now there were flashes of people I loved. Only the outlines of faces, but I knew who they were. Fleeting glimpses of family and friends. I wanted to stay with them a moment, and hold on to the feelings they evoked. But the phantasms zoomed across the haze as I continued my arid journey. A searing pain pierced my chest. Loss. Life goes so quickly. Maybe I didn’t pay enough attention.

I gasped, seeing my most horrible memory flicker through the heavens. It was lowest point in my life. I stood on the icy earch before my mother’s grave on a freezing January day holding a small prayer book. The Lord is my Shepard. I shall not want. I had the realization that my life was forever changed. How would I live through losing a part of myself? I drifted through years of acute grief, darkness, and fear. “Lord, why didn’t you at least make a cameo appearance? Now, I am left wandering.” I looked down for relief and saw a solitary pair of footsteps.

“Whatever it was, disappeared when I needed company the most. ” I felt a familiar tinge of abandonment.

I suddenly looked up and saw a Western Wall in Jerusalem against the backdrop of a pink sky. I was sobbing and praying. My hands were placed across the cool stones hoping for healing. I was at a crossroads in my life. I had gotten a pink slip from my job during the recession and had no prospects. My mother was ailing. Prince Charming’s glass slipper was cracked. I wondered how on earth did I get here? I had fallen and felt alone in the universe. I needed a sign. Was there anything or anyone or out there that heard our prayers? My heart was broken open. And there it was with perfect clarity. A pink slip was curled into a crevice above me in the Western Wall. There it was like mistletoe above me. My prayers were heard. What had been an icon of loss had become a symbol of grace.

“I must get out of this dream.” I looked down at the solitary trail of footsteps. “So Lord, when things are really tough, you take off to your vacation home.”

I heard a voice within me whisper, “Listen sweetie, YOU can only walk in in stiletto heels. Who do you think has been schlepping you?”




I went to a conference on Twitter and found that I’m truly a “twidiot!”  The best part, however, was seeing Martha   Stewart in person and hearing her speak about important digital marketing matters.   Like shoes…What I learned is that she’s really into them.  In fact, she’ll even take a picture of your shoes if she likes them.  I was sorry that she didn’t take a picture of my shoes.  I should have worn the ones with the bows, or the polka dots.  Not black patent flats…I would love to go for dinner at her house.  But I would keep her away from my feet!

Cyber Snoop

I’ve noticed that dating and interviewing for jobs are very similar.  But what do YOU think about “Googling” a potential date before you’ve even met them?  Does it really give you some kind of competitive advantage over drinks?”    I don’t know.  Personally, I think it’s unromantic and downright mercenary!  Do  you  think someone has the right to review all the details of your life , before you’ve both been severely inebriated together?  Now that’s romance!  Should a potential dating candidate (in the name of transparency) hurl , “I FacedBooked you!  I guess you graduated high school when you were 9…?” 

Maybe I am old fashioned,  but I believe in these times of  “the meet-up” , “the hook-up”, and “ the cybersnoop”, one should just let things unfold the natural way!

The New Date

We stare into each other eyes.  There is chemistry.

He asks:

I noticed on Linked-In that you’re a marketing strategy consultant.  What do you do all day long?

(Perhaps I should wink and say I will “do you!” )  That would make me popular.  I eat a pretzel.

“Do you own or rent?”  (Referring to my apartment. Not my body parts.)

(“Oh, of course I own.” I lie.  I shove a cracker with cheese whiz in my mouth.  And what about you?)

“I live in hospital housing.” he smiles.

(What does that mean?  Is he a doctor or an in-patient?)  I twirl my hair seductively in case he’s a doctor.  Damn.  I should have “Googled” him!”

He  circles back to the apartment. “When did you buy?”

That’s a very important asset question.   He’s also trying to figure out the capitol gains for when he moves in, divorces me, and claims ownership of my apartment.  Smart.  He must be an MD!

I smile coyly, “I can’t tell you that since I’ve frozen my age.”

He points at me with a a pretzel, “Got Ya!”

“It’s the new math.  Got it?”

“Where does your mother live?”  he asks.

“Not with me.  But I’m a good daughter.  I visit her every week. ” My smile is frozen.

“What is her address?” he commands as he puts his hand on my leg.  That is his way of eliciting secret information from me.  I stare blankly.

“Does she rent or own?” he continues.

” I don’t remember” I say weakly.  He senses huge capitol gains and squeezes my leg.  I start to stand, and he grabs my arm.

“Wait.  We’re just getting to know each other.  When did she buy?”  Just a few more questions.”  He pulls out a crumpled list.

“I noticed you only worked with American Baby for one year?  How come?”

“How many pairs of shoes do you own?”

“Do you have long term care insurance?”

“Do you believe in decorating for the holidays?  If so, with what?”

(How do you want me to decorate you, honey?)

“Do you believe in “Soul Mates?”

“How much money do you make?”

“What do you think about ME!!!”

“Tell me about the perfect relationship.”

“I really like your orange jump suit.  What did you DO to get it?”

I say:

I think I’ll have some nuts…