Let's break this long passage into smaller chunks for better readability and clarity in translation:
---
**Saturday and Sunday continued. Regarding the first time, because my youngster was born two years ago, I attended a casino shoe hunt. And to my surprise, I found that I had absolutely no interest in those strappy sandals with too-high pumps or those leopard-print stilettos with peek-a-boo toes. I didn’t even glance at them. The same goes for those razor-thin wedges with thick soles, as sweet as they were.**
Instead, I gravitated towards ballet flats with soles slim enough to fit my body. I wanted loafers with gel cushion inserts. I found myself longing for brands like Easy Nature and Easy Lane—shoes that offer "in-flex" technology and "super flex" soles.
In other words, I was fascinated by comfortable shoes, which is perhaps more suitable for my mother’s generation—or likely for women much older and less vain than me.
That’s when it hit me. I had become one of them too.
Somewhere in the past two years, beauty had stopped being a priority.
Between working all day and tending to children, there was no longer any time for indulgences like haircuts and eyebrow waxing. A pedicure? Just a fantasy.
I am not alone. Time management is a pressing issue for working mothers, which trickles down even to our beauty routines. The magazine *Working Mom*—which we see because a childless co-worker keeps receiving it in her mail—is full of tips on how to "multitask" your makeup foundation with red stains on your lips and cheeks, foundations that double as concealer, and pinkish-bluish-beige powders you just smear across your face. Going shoe shopping isn’t what it used to be, especially when hoping for high heels.
I haven’t quite mastered the art of multitasking my beauty routine, so it has mostly fallen by the wayside. And in true Darwinian fashion, my body has adapted accordingly.
My hair, which once stayed neatly styled for days, stopped getting cut altogether after realizing it would never be trimmed again. My naturally colored roots stopped halfway up my strands and instead blended seamlessly into what was left of my highlights. My feet, thankfully unconstrained, widened into the shape I was meant to have for life—around supras shoes, fleshy pads with broken toenails developing.
Lately, the idea of cramming those feet into a pair of pointy-toed stiletto pumps for a night out feels laughable. I’d rather let my extra-wide feet splay into an unsightly pair of Crocs without having to worry about blisters.
Now I understand why mothers wear skinny jeans that balloon around their thighs like denim parachutes and why they opt for the "mom haircut," a shapeless bob that stays flat against their faces and requires no fussing. It’s all about comfort and convenience. Who has time for curling irons? Or the stomach strength to suck in your gut for a pair of skinny jeans?
Isn’t that why someone created *Not Your Daughter’s Jeans*, those high-waisted tummy-tuck jeans designed to help flabby-abbed moms?
Even that marketing depresses me. The company "celebrates the beauty of women who know who they are and know that they don’t need to impress anyone but themselves." Translation: Go ahead, slide into those spacious denims. You don’t care how you look.
Tempting as it might be, I’m not quite ready to give up entirely.
As I stood in a casino shoe store holding a pair of padded mules, I resisted slipping into the dowdy-mom role. I reached for a pair of reptile-print high heels. My feet balked—the toes curling up in protest, the flattened arches refusing to conform. Nonetheless, I was determined to leave the store with something completely impractical—yet fabulous—like the shoes from days gone by.
I stood up, teetering on the heels. My ankles buckled inward, weakened after months of wearing earthbound boots, but I recovered. I tried to ignore the discomfort, trying to appreciate them, determined to wear them.
But halfway through my experimental commute, I lost the battle. Instead of feeling fabulous, I felt blistered. And pinched. I chose a pair of ballet flats, slipped back into my flip-flops, and called my hairstylist.
---
This translation maintains the original tone and meaning while ensuring proper grammar and structure in English. Let me know if further adjustments are needed!