Jealous of a Pair of Heels

I made my daily trip to the gas station this morning, on my way to the job site. I was inside the gas station, standing there at the cooler, trying to decide what flavor caffeine I was gonna have for breakfast. Here lately, I’ve been addicted to Alani’s. Today’s flavor is Orange Kiss. I shut the cooler door. I heard one of the sounds in the world: heels clicking on the floor, as a woman. The gas station was full of all blue-collar types. Part of that community, I know exactly what all the guys were thinking. Meanwhile, I was jealous of shoes. They were nothing special—black, four-inch stiletto-style heels. They were way cuter than my muddy work boots. Not her, unfortunately. My shoe attire most days of my life. She made her selection and headed to the cash register. I was trying to decide if I really needed that bag of potato chips or not. Seeing how I’m on a diet, I decided against them. I ended up in line behind her, and all I can think of is a jealousy of the fact that she gets to wear her heels, skirt, and cute flower top to work today—and I’m stuck in muddy work boots, jeans, and a T-shirt that I guarantee you has more than one grease stain on it and probably some holes from welding. I spent my whole life thinking the only choice I had was blue-collar life. Don’t get me wrong, I made a lot of money at it over the years. But at the same time, my body is breaking down from all the damage of working the long, strenuous hours and harsh conditions. Maybe someday I’ll be able to wear the cute outfit