Imelda From the Void

Maybe it's because way back in August of 197- I was born in the Philippines and they were our government-approved dictators; maybe because she and Ferdinand became cultural touchstones in the 80s just at the time I was developing my sense of irony and love of schadenfreude and they weren't so low rent Southern as Jim and Tammy Faye (all that Jesus, all that crying, all that mascara, all that hair...it was like Dynasty on a budget just with more prayer, more bad music and fewer cat fights); maybe it's just because I find saying the words "Imelda Marcos" pleasurable...do it, say the words softly to yourself, pay attention to how your mouth moves...it's lovely, really. Maybe.

Or maybe it was the shoes. The breathless reporting after they were run out of the country of people finding thousands of pairs of shoes and hundreds of matching black panty sets. Lately Imelda's been on my mind, because I've become shoe obsessed--looking online, actually going to brick and mortar stores, wishing I still got catalogs in the mail. My urge for shoes is simply short-handed as "inner Imelda." And lately, bunnies, my inner Imelda has grown strong. It's not out of control yet. Roughly a pair of shoes every two weeks since November...that's not so bad, right?

I'll leave you with some words of wisdom from the doyenne of graft herself: "I did not have three thousand pairs of shoes, I had one thousand and sixty."