Lesson #56 - Always Have Two Pairs Of Shoes Handy

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Welcome to "Transient Tuesdays"...I am glad that you decided to stop by! Have a seat, kick up your feet and enjoy this week's post from The Frog Mama. From living in Mulletville to getting her blog hijacked by Frog Man...this lady tells it like it is. Below is her experience in her boss's shoes!!!

One day, not so long ago, my boss looked at my feet and asked, "What size shoe do you wear?" When I told her "seven and a half," she took off her shoes and handed them to me, then looked expectantly at my feet.

Apparently she needed to run an errand and her shoes were giving her blisters so she wanted to borrow mine for a few hours.

Ew, ew, and ew again.

There are certain things that skeeve me out; sharing shoes is one of them. Also on the list? Sharing straws, gum, and spoons (but oddly, not forks). The words "moist" and "washcloth." The sound of anything liquid poured into a cup, especially milk. Listening to someone sing in an intimate setting (I get embarrassed for them, even if they're doing well). And eating homemade baked goods at work functions (I can't get past the image of people in their bathrobes and curlers licking their fingers).

I did what I could to dissuade my boss—I claimed that my feet were sweaty, my shoes uncomfortable, my stumpy heels…stumpy—but she wouldn't hear it. She whipped out a bottle of Shower to Shower, sprinkled my shoes, and fled.

So there I was, stripped of my one-inch-heeled, Nine West, four seasons' old black shoes and upgraded to her five-inch-heeled, designer lacey strap-ons.

You know how you liked to walk around the house in your mom's (or dad's) shoes when you were a kid? How it made you feel kind of big and badass? That's kind of how I felt: abnormally taller, wobblier, and badder (after I got over the initial skeeve factor). The heels didn't exactly go with my outfit (I may live in Mulletville but I don't usually pair hooker heels with gray pants and a cardigan) but yah, I strutted around like a happy little rooster.

Then she came back. Barefoot.

"I thought my shoes were bad," she said.

She put my shoes on my desk and waited for me to hand over the goods, which I did, albeit reluctantly. My shoes looked kind of sad and forlorn after that. Kind of librarianish. Kind of ew.

But hey, I learned a valuable lesson that day. If you want a raise from your boss, let her walk a mile in your shoes.