05
Feb
08

Slippin’ Into the Future, Part Two…. Shoes of Destiny

Look, I’m not one of those follow-the-latest-new-age-craze yoga Betties, given to quoting Rumi and taking Coelho-esque sojourns into exotic mountain villages. I don’t have a bumper sticker on my Prius Hybrid that says, “What Would Buddha Do?” and I don’t know what having Pluto in the 11th House of Pisces really has to do with whether or not I should order the chips or apple slices with my Subway sandwich meal.

But I did see “The Secret.”

Of course, I was skeptical initially. There was a lot of talk about affirmations and the “revelations” that “thoughts become actions”—a lot of stuff I pretty much already knew. But somewhere along the way, it started to sink in. It was perfect timing, too, as I was at a restless sort of crossroads with my career and didn’t know what to do next. Naturally, I did what any rational, semi-intelligent, ambitious young woman would do in my position: I got out the scissors and glue, a stack of InStyles and Esquires, and I made a collage.

I started to become empowered by the notion that I could indeed manifest my own damn destiny, or create a clear picture of what I wanted it to look like, and then make it happen.

At first, I just cut out words: “RockStar Day Jobs!” “Where You Go, Becomes Who You Are. Go Somewhere Mesmerizing!” “On the Up, Up and Up!” “Paid Vacations Rock!” “The Right Ingredients Make Your Life Astonishingly Flavorful!”

And then I got crazy with photos: an airplane soaring, a hot chick looking glamorous with her old-school typewriter, another hot chick getting a massage in Bali, a nighttime city skyline, a sexy cartoon of a naked couple, and, for some reason, a pair of fantastically retro, round-toed, metal-studded, white-heeled shoes…

Where to get these…

… My destiny was looking fabulous, darling.

The following month I visited my mom on the mainland. Like always, she took me shoe-shopping, and while I was intent on a pair of absolutely unnecessary leopard-print stilettos, she discretely slipped another pair she’d bought into my bag. You can imagine my shock and glee when later I discovered them and—I am so not kidding here—they were an exact replica of the shoes in my collage.

And so, my friends, those were the shoes I slipped on after I threw out my ole slippahs at the airport, just before boarding the flight to my fantastically retro, round-toed, metal-studded, white-heeled new life.

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