A DSW shoe store seems like a pretty innocuous place.  Somewhere one might go to kill time on a cold January afternoon.  Hardly the type of place for a nervous breakdown.  And yet, in a particular DSW on a particular January afternoon, a middle-aged woman paces up and down the aisles of the store, almost frantic.  What’s her story?

From the way she’s pacing, you might think she’s canceled her gym membership and decided that DSW is as good a place as any to get in her 10,000 steps.

How would you describe her expression?  Frustration? Bewilderment? Grim determination?

From the look on her face, you might imagine she’s a member of an alien race sent to gather information on the shoe-shopping habits of Earthlings.  (If so, her disguise is great…both sneakers she’s wearing have big holes from which her toes protrude.)

Why does she walk toward the exit as though she’s about to leave the store, only to spin back around and make a beeline for a display of salmon-colored Reeboks? 

Why the air of urgency as she tries on a pair? 

Why does she look like she’s trying to solve some kind of puzzle? 

What the hell is her problem?

Good question.  As I sit here looking at my new salmon-colored Reeboks, I’m still trying to solve a puzzle: Do I like them?  Are they fashionable or hideous?  I’m not sure, but I’m glad I bought them.

So, I guess one of my problems is that I find myself well into mid-life with such a poor sense of self that I’m flummoxed by picking out a new pair of sneakers.  How does that make me feel?  Embarrassed, pathetic, sad…

Several months ago, my therapist suggested I write this blog.  It will require me to engage in what he calls “civil disobedience”.  I’ve been programmed from birth to be agreeable, defer to others, blend into the background.  So, for me, writing a blog about myself is kind of like asking a nun to star in a burlesque show.  (Slight exaggeration, but you get the idea.)

I’ve been procrastinating for months, so I’m going to force myself to post this, and we’ll see where things go.