Fever in those man-my-legs-look-good 3inch heels while I strut my stuff back to Funky Town in those one-and-done, screw-me stilettos. After passing back through the what-is-that-smell sneaker phase, it was all glide and glow in my Mary-Jane’s briefly before being back to the sheer joy of bare feet and belly crawling my way through life.
The De-evolution is complete:
That battle is done. The long walk back through my shoe closet of time landed me right where I needed to be; my basest of basest self. The beginning . . . the goo-filled, single-celled, spot of a self on the ocean’s floor. So now what?
Now . . . it’s evolution’s turn. I’m learning to float, swim, crawl, walk, and dance my way back up the chain to a walking, talking, thinking, drinking, dancing, prancing, new, and improved, me. (Ignore the drinking part . . . while true, it’s only there for the rhyme. Just nod your head in agreement, it’ll save time.)
The worst so far? Months and months of long, very uncomfortable, looks in a cracked mirror; horrifying bouts of depression and anxiety, and cases and cases of liquid courage.
The best I can say of this Evolutionary War of mine? Thanks to whatever higher power lead me to picking up a camera for the first time, I’ve begun seeing the world through a different lens, blogging, writing, making new friends, and have even found new love. I’ve got renewed hope and the outlook for life is sun and clouds, rain and drought, black and white, and fifty shades of gray hair. And it all looks damned fine to me.
In short . . . the Evolution Revolution is on. I’m saying 'Look out
because my camera and me are sweating the flashes and snapping our way to a new future where anything is possible.’
Vive la révolution!