Ann
Ipock
Humorist,
author, speaker
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An
Out of Control Magnet : When Shoe Shopping,
Mine Disappeared
I’m fairly good—though not great—at keeping up with my “things,” be it my business or social calendar; budget or finances; or matters of a personal nature, i.e., my wardrobe, hair and nail appointments, and health care matters. Though I’m not a control freak per se, I admit to being a little compulsive. For instance, I like to store my shoes in their original boxes. I like my blinds to be turned down to filter bright morning light. And I always keep my cordless phone within arms’ reach. (You never know when the “Oprah” show might call!)
But imagine how out of control I felt (not to mention helpless) when my shoes recently disappeared on a shopping trip out of town. Some people say that we control our own destiny, but I was just trying to keep up with my shoes.
Speaking of shoes, anybody that knows me knows I love them. I think this obsession goes back to my teenage days working at our family business, The Bootery Shoe Store. Still, I’ve cut back some over the last few years, getting by with perhaps six—instead of sixteen—purchases a year.
On a recent trip out of town, the five of us discovered our restaurant wait would be over an hour; so what else could we do, but shop at the nearest mall? My sister Nancy headed for ladies clothing, my husband Russell and nephew Huck, headed to the sporting goods store, and my friend Jennifer and I headed for the shoe department. While there, I discovered several racks of “too good to be true” bargains. Imagine my delight to find many $99.00 shoes slashed to $9.99. I never knew that moving a decimal could feel so good! I was in Cinderella-heaven, honey. After my third “Wow!” from yet another successful shoe selection, Jennifer seemed worried. She grabbed my arm and pointed to her watch, saying, “We’re going to be late for dinner. We’ve got five minutes to make it to the restaurant!”
I told Jennifer to hold on, that I was waiting for a missing shoebox. This mishap didn’t surprise me because the store—crawling with hungry bargain hunters—was a mess: Mismatched pairs, overturned boxes, shoes strewn all over the floor. But Jennifer insisted, saying, “Don’t worry about the silly box.” I whined, “But I like to keep my shoes organized in boxes.” Jennifer then gave me that defiant “Aunt Esther-look” from the old “Sanford and Son” T.V. show, almost hitting me with her pocketbook. “All right,” I said, barefooted and frowning, preparing to pay for the three pairs (minus one box) and head over to Macaroni Grill.
But when I went to slip on my Born mules that I’d worn into the store, they were nowhere to be found. Bewildered, I searched frantically through the racks of size 6 through 8. (That was a large range I realize, but you know my philosophy—if they’re on sale and they look good, buy them, regardless: Too small? Shoot, just cram your foot into those suckers—they’ll stretch eventually. Too big? No problem, just insert a pair (or two) of innersoles. But do not let that bargain go, sweetie! It’s a woman’s prerogative!) It was no use. The shoes had vanished! I’m no detective, but it appeared to me that the shoes I’d walked in with had gotten up and walked out—by themselves.
Two ladies who were sitting nearby, trying on sale shoes, saw this commotion. I told them what had happened, describing my missing shoes, (which were barely two weeks old and like-new). One of the ladies nearly choked on her breath mint, saying, “Those were yours? I didn’t know that! I wanted them! The clerk is getting a price check for me right now.” My eyes bugged out. I couldn’t speak. So, I ran towards the stock room, almost knocking down the lady who came through the door. She rushed past me, holding my shoes close to her chest. I shouted to her, “Those are mine!”
She held the already-owned-but-newly-desired footwear, clutching them even tighter. Then she said, “No, I’m sorry. These are for another customer,” pointing to the lady waiting for the price. Was it just me or did her attitude imply, “She was here first!”? I then told the clerk my story. (Good thing I wasn’t shopping for a bathing suit.) About this time, my cell phone rung and Russell, said, “Where are you? We’re late for dinner.” I simply said, “I’m retrieving my shoes.” “What? Come on!” he said. There was something wrong with this picture: First we strolled around an hour, (lollygagging, Russell calls it), while waiting for dinner—then we rushed around the last five minutes, while hurrying to the restaurant.
So once again, the universe sent me a “this could only happen to you” message. Diane DeVaughn Stokes commented on this when she recently interviewed me for her T.V. show “Southern Style.” After having read my newest book, Life Is Short, But It’s Wide, she asked me how come all these paranormal things happened to me, saying I was a magnet. She may be right, since I’m starting to feel like an out of control magnet!
I’ve been thinking: On the one hand, my life sure would be simpler if I’d never driven over an orange highway cone, gotten hit in the head with a flashing screw at a semi-pro baseball game, burned (as in “Fire!”) a Thanksgiving turkey, lost my car at the mall during Katie’s tenth birthday party, ordered business cards before I actually had a business, dyed my hair burgundy, or yanked out half the mayor’s mustache with my dental hygiene polisher. It’s also true that some days I wonder if I should even leave the
house. This apparent “Murphy’s Law” thing can make you rather paranoid. No, that’s silly—I don’t believe staying inside would put a negative charge on my so-called magnet. Why, just look at that garbage disposal I killed with ten pounds of dry grits. I never even left the house that day… (Ann Ipock 10/06/03)