Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Well Heeled

I have been wearing the same pair of shoes for the past three weeks. They have sometimes not exactly matched what I was wearing. They are a brown pair of Steve Madden mules which look like penny loafers, save for the slide in design. I am really not sure how long I might wear these shoes... certainly 'until they wear out' has crossed my mind. Why do I love them?

They are flat. I have reached that stage in life; I am one step closer in my descent into soccer mom hell. Toss me my minivan and seventeen activity agenda for my kid. I am clearly far gone.

I spent my twenties teetering around in high heels. I loved heels and regularly wore four inch stilettos. I could run in them. I didn't just walk, I strode around in my shoes. I actually had people comment on my walk back then. People could hear me coming and know it was me by my stride. They called it sexy.

I don't want to know what people would call my walk now. Over the past several years my shoes started to morph. First, my heels became extremely boxy. Then they shrank. The girl who once turned her nose up at one inch heels was suddenly eying kitten heels as possible new shoes. And then, in early October, I just gave up. I slipped on these shoes, sold them my sole, and have put them on every day since.

This is a problem. First, while I own a lot of brown and brown complimenting clothing, not everything is brown. Second, of the brown clothes I do own, I own even fewer brown socks. This has not stopped me. Yesterday I had on a pair of black and white polka dotted socks. With my brown shoes. And khaki pants. Someone help me.

Heels have started to hurt. They somehow never hurt before under eight hours, no matter the activity. Now, if I put on a pair of heels in my bedroom, my feet are hurting before I cross the threshold of my own front door. Going out. What happened to me?

My mother warned me about this. When I was younger, she used to tell me that the time when I could skip gaily around in stilettos would someday come to an end. She also said that I wouldn't be able to eat potato chips for dinner and remain thin and energized, and that there would come a day when going to bed at four and rising at six would be quite visible on my face when I showed up to work at eight. I scoffed at her and her control top pantyhose and night creams. I was young. I was tall. I could cure hangovers with a bacon and scrambled egg breakfast. And I would never become a flat shoe girl. I believed in this so much I bought over a hundred pairs.

After I threw out approximately fifty pairs last year (lack of wear; lack of storage space) I started to rethink. I pondered how now a single potato chip can have me up at two in the morning attempting to pray away my stomach cramps. How having a second (okay, fine. Third) martini is an event from which I take two days to recover. How my tennis shoes (and I detest tennis shoes. Shoes made for activities which make you sweat? No thank you) practically SING to me from the closet (I have drawn the line at pantyhose of any type, which I strongly believe are the work of the devil).

I thought my love affair with shoes had ended. Now I'm realizing that we've just reached a different stage. My feet want to be coddled and pampered. They are quite comfortable letting another part of my body play the sexy part for a while (they actually think my boobs are long past due taking their turn). They want comfort. They want flats. And I am giving in. I am in my brown, flat, sensible shoes.

With my boobs in a push up bra hanging outta my shirt.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

That last line is hilarious!