The journey to get a mammogram begins with a single step – until you look down and discover your shoes are coming apart.
I like to schedule these annoying-yet-essential procedures early. That’s not as in early detection, but early in the morning; off I went in my trusty Prius with its beloved heated steering wheel, on a cold and frosty morning.
As I walked to the hospital elevator, I realized my Dansko shoes were squeaking. I tend to pick up cute shoes, usually Allegria or Dansko brands; these bargains often exhibit some small detail that prompted the prior owner to donate them. Baby powder stops squeaky shoes, and I made a note to fix them later.
Except…. They were also kinda wobbly. Danskos have those notorious thick soles, so why should I feel unstable?
Checking in, the nurse complimented me on my shoes. “Those are adorable. What brand?”
“Thank you,” I said, lifting my foot to show her the logo as I added, “Dansko.” The shoe’s heel stayed on the floor.
She didn’t notice, having turned to add my vitals to some e-record the dark forces would use to market things to me later. I left a trail of little black bits all the way down the hall to the waiting room, where I again lifted my foot to see what the hell was going on down there.
Another piece of sole parted company with its host. I brushed the spongy stuff under the chair with what remained of my shoe and took sock—er, stock—of my situation.
For whatever reason, those thick Dansko soles had cracked as I walked on them, the cracking pieces falling away in chunks and crumbs. By this time, I had about half a sole left on each shoe, in random places, the entire thing resembling something the dog had gotten hold of, if the dog were to eschew chewing leather in favor of what looked like foam rubber coated with shellack. I am shoe-construction naïve. I just buy them when they’re cute.
As I pondered being soleless, the second nurse came to get me. I considered coming clean but instead staggered behind, leaving a trail of black crumbs, to the prep room. As she sat me down for the routine chat, I crossed my legs, then hastily uncrossed them as her eyes traveled to my shoes.
“Those are so cute! Where did you get them?” She pointed to my feet flat on the floor. The lighting was dim, the black rubble piling up beneath me invisible against the dark carpet.
“Thrift store. They’re Danskos.” I said, as we moved down the hall to the machine.
“That’s a great brand,” she said, and began sliding parts of me into the vice.
I used to think so, I thought as she rotated, squeezed, and photographed. At one point I was certain my breasts would join my shoes in rebelling against these working conditions and part company with my body, but I remained whole, reassembled my clothing post-procedure, and wobbled out the door.
Behind me the receptionist gave a cry of annoyance. “How did all that dirt get on the floor? Is it raining? Call housekeeping.”
When I got home and checked into social media, my side advertisements were all…of course…shoe sales.
Wendy Welch: Books, Yarn, Cats, Opioids 