O is for Organic
Last week, I went shopping for new running shoes. As I have mentioned before, I hate shoe shopping with the fire of a thousand suns. I have the hardest time finding shoes that fit well, that are comfortable, and that don’t look like the white Reeboks my grandma wears to “the club.” So I decided to enlist the help of an afro’d salesman in the New Balance store, who promptly offered to measure my feet and “hook me up” with a sweet new pair of kicks.
After placing my feet in weird metal contraptions and adjusting levers, and then having me stand up, then wiggle my toes, then sit down again, the salesman called over his manager. They stood a few feet away, speaking in hushed tones, and covertly stealing glances back at me. Finally, he returned with the news: “Miss, it seems that your left foot is a size 8 and your right foot is a size 9.”
[collective gasp from the blog readers]
An entire size of difference! No wonder I have such issues with shoes! I asked him why this is, and he said that the arch on my right foot has fallen. “Ew,” said I.
Our feet were not meant to be shove into shoes. We were created to walk barefoot, and to have the earth adjust and mold to the natural shape of our feet. Instead, we have created flat-bottomed or high-heeled shoes that our feet try to adapt to, causing arches to fall and blisters to form and all-around bitchy attitudes from girls like me.
Speaking of the natural way of things, Bryan and Stephanie took me to the Ballard Farmer’s Market yesterday morning in order to teach me about eating conscientiously. They’re good at it. They are organic, fair-trade, grass-fed, free-range kind of people – and you know what? I think they’re onto something.
I really love farmers markets, and Stephanie put words to it: “Coming here is like going to church – everyone’s fellowshipping and here for common values. And there’s music!” :) People are walking around with dogs and babies, and everyone is excited about sampling the cheese and chocolate and different honeys and breads. The food has enormous flavor, making me think that I could be satisfied with so much less. I would not need to sit down with a block of Kroger cheddar – I could have a little wedge of herb gouda, and it would taste delectable enough to fulfill me.
People who shop at farmers markets, where the produce is local and normally a product of sustainable process, eat only what is in season at the time. There are no pesticide-ridden strawberries being flown in from Chile in the deep mid-winter; certain fruits are only available in the late spring and early summer. And this is the way that things were created; the earth and the seasons have a rhythm, and maybe we are meant to live in accordance with this pattern.
I guess I accept the fact that I have to wear shoes. But yesterday, I just might have been converted to the organic side. The next thing you know, I’ll be concerned about global warming (wait – already am), voting democrat (wait – already did), and grocery shopping with a canvas sack (a gift from the UPC Gospel Choir).