I don’t think I’m vain. Do you think I’m vain? Nah. I don’t think I’m vain. But maybe vanity is one of those qualities like humility – the second you say you aren’t it, you’ve just proved that you are.
Anyway, I stepped out of the car across the street from my church this morning and just kept on stepping out of things. Like my shoes.
My fave white summer dressy wedge sandals started feeling a little … weird … with my first few steps on the asphalt. Especially when the soles stayed where they were planted on the 385-degree asphalt and my feet kept going on without them. When they say central Florida summers are hot enough to melt butter, they ain’t kiddin’.
So my ding-dang shoes fell all to pieces. And we were at church. And the service had already started. And Spouse started laughing so hard I thought he would hock up a kidney. And a police car was heading right for us as I halted mid-stride, suddenly barefoot in a red dress. As I turned to collect my AWOL footwear from the middle of the road so the traffic could continue unimpeded, the cop made a full stop, rolled down his window, and deadpanned, “Well, that’s not something you see everyday.”
Of course Spouse had to contribute to the conversation and paused busting a gut long enough to spew, “She’s trying to walk in the footsteps of Jesus but she just can’t toe the line.” Then both he and the cop burst into side-splitting guffaws.
Humph. I was not finding this funny. Not one bit. Perhaps there was a teensy weensy bit of vanity involved.
Red-faced, I plucked my shoe soles from the sizzling asphalt – along with what little dignity I could muster – and entered the church flat-footed in what now were effectively fancy bedroom shoes. I stuck my pathetic-ly incompetent wedge soles in my purse and attempted to hold my head high.
Only I felt really short. (Even shorter than my usual 5-foot self.) I had just lost 2 inches of sole. But hey, my soul – the most important thing – was in tact. And I worshipped my God regardless of nearly naked feet. And ignored Spouse still chortling beside me through the entire first praise song.
It’s a good thing Papa God loves us as we are. I suspect He never even noticed my wardrobe malfunction.
And for my longtime faithful readers who recall my post a couple years ago about the embarrassing time my hilarious Southern Mama’s shoes dry rotted into tiny shards at her best friend’s funeral, what goes around, comes around. I’m pretty sure I heard the faint echo of Mama’s unique laugh resounding from the general direction of heaven this morning as I hobbled through the church doors.
How about you, dearest BFF? When was your last encounter with public humiliation?
Won’t you share it here with your community of besties? Hey, if we don’t keep our sense of humor, we may not have any sense a ‘tall.