It’s 58 degrees today, according to my Firefox Forecast.  Naturally, I took advantage of this lovely weather, and put on a skirt that I planned on not being able to wear again until spring.  Perhaps this was foolish.

On my walk to work this morning, I got whistled at by four people who drove by me, got a “how you doing” from some guy waiting at a light, got the same compliment I always get from the guy waiting for the bus, and got asked for my number by an on-duty postal worker– this was all within 4 blocks of my house.  Apparently this skirt is magic because another time I was wearing it, I backed my car into a guy (his car, not his person) and the sight of the skirt calmed him down enough to stop him from yelling at me.

That’s all well and good, flattering etc., but with the price of stamps, I don’t think postal workers should be wasting time and gas following me around in the little truck with the wrong-side steering wheel and whistling.  Also, I just want to walk to work in peace, and I would like to stop writing blogs about getting whistled at.

Change of topic.

My boss has requested that I spend the next few days familiarizing myself with our new online learning program.  I know this will not take a few days, and therefore, I am sitting in my cubicle buying more footwear from the internet and blogging.  To be fair, my black boots broke a while ago (heel split), and I’ve been forced to wear only shades of brown and other neutrals since I’m too lazy to take the boots to a cobbler, so this purchase is slightly legitimate.  I could also stop being a lazyass and find a damn cobbler– but that really doesn’t sound like me.

Cobblers are something that I just never think of, and kind of assume don’t actually exist outside of fairy tales. Even though I could look it up, and probably find 1/2 dozen very close to where I live, bavarianin the back of my mind, I just assume that no one repairs shoes anymore.  I also picture any potential cobbler that I might find running his business out of a lovely Bavarian-style shop with smaller-than-average employees who whistle while they work and spontaneously burst into song.  I think if I found a cobbler who wasn’t operating under those circumstances, I would be very disappointed, and perhaps lose some of my girlish enthusiasm for life– there’s really no way to predict that though.

Point is, despite the advice of a very wise woman who after listening to my complaints about my boots being broken replied “Andria, find a cobbler.”  I will be employing my own method of boot repair, which includes some black electrical tape and a hot glue gun, and I’ll probably do it while wearing the new black boots I just ordered.

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