Two Shoes

Thanks to Ms. Casey, my English teacher from 9th through 12th grades (her motto was: "All educated, literate people know this!"), and my generally brooding nature, while shopping for shoes the other day and contemplating which pair to settle on, I thought of "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

You see, I am at a crossroads of sorts. Not that the choosing of shoes would determine my next step, so to speak, and seal my fate--the shoes being on clearance and non-returnable--but in the midst of (kind of sort of) job hunting, anticipating interviews, awaiting the assumed desire of a positive outcome or bracing myself for the expected rejection, I am secretly harboring dreams of taking the road less travelled by. Certainly commuting on Highway 4 during rush hour is most definitely NOT the road less travelled by. And creating my own path, however meandering and impractical and unrealistic, will almost definitely lead to many sighs in the future.

But back to the shoes. So I had on one foot an "interview" pair: black and sleek and with enough of a heel to exude that extra boost of measured confidence; on the other foot was a "mom" pair: suede loafers that were comfy enough to wear to the park and during endless trips to the grocery store...pretty much identical to two other pairs that are sitting in my closet--stained, permanently embedded with sand, reassuring when I slip them on but also annoying in that sandy-shoes way. It was a decision that I resented having to make, and yet it was painfully obvious that I had put myself in the position of standing there at the shoe store, choosing to make it. And now high school physics came to mind, and I felt like a ball of potential energy just seconds from shooting off a cliff (What have I done? I don't even like heels! Why am I doing this?) and conversely like a steady stream of inertia moving continuously and comfortably yet uncertainly (This is natural. This is easy. Is this all?).

It turned out that the decision I made was the best choice of all. I know it is because instead of buyer's regret I am still euphoric and scheming to buy every single pair that I can afford, in my size, in every color (easy to say even for a brooder like me as the shoes only come in tan, black, and gray--my favorite colors after navy blue). I chose the path that for me is most definitely less travelled by. I stepped out of the clearance section and straight to the pair of trusty leather oxfords that caught my eye on the way in. I would stop asking the shoes to define me, stop letting the anticipation of the future define me. I would define myself.

Uh, oh...and now the line "and miles to go before I sleep" keeps repeating in my head....