Sure it was a heavy metal/punk rock bar that always smelled of cigarettes (even after the smoking ban in Chicago) and drunk-person sweat, but that was my scene and I loved it. Now we’ve all moved on (thank you for keeping me updated Facebook), and it’s a very different place where people don't know me, but they do know my daughters.
I bet you thought I was going to say something like the playground or Gymboree, Carters, or some baby music class. No, it’s DSW. I have gone in there so many times with my infant daughters they recognize me. I am being asked how to style difficult shoes. I’m told about promotions that aren’t advertised yet and about new shoes that came out. (The boot section is bananas right now for fall).
|Not my store, but close.|
Still, while I’m the one with the credit card, replenishing my now deceased shoe collection due to those little cherubs changing my shoe size during pregnancy, it’s not my name the sales people know. It’s my girls.
Granted, I’m not quite as cute, and I don’t put my foot in my mouth in public (I can but seriously, why would you want to?), but still…I’m the one buying the shoes. They don’t even wear shoes, but at the shoe store they’re the ones getting all the attention!
As a “grown up” DSW has become my new Cheers and I’m playing second string to a couple of infant girls. That store is just counting down the days until those little girls start walking and need their own shoes.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a cocktail and cry over the shoes that no longer fit while the twinkies nap.