When I was young, I had beautiful shoes. High heels, stilettos, platforms, ballerinas, even vintage shoes my mother wore in the 40’s. But that was then. Now my favorite shoes are loafers. With dresses or with trousers. I wear my loafers all four seasons long. In summer I love sandals too. Ones with bands over the foot, no flip flops which force me to arch my sweet toes into cramps from hell to prevent the things from slipping off my foot and drive me to legal drugs at night to just get some shut eye. Comfort is the magic word when it comes to shoes. As well as clothes for that matter. There was a time when I would sacrifice comfort for beauty. But that was also then. Now I have succumbed to plain ole soft comfort. I did however, try to give beauty one more go, just in case I am still up for it, which is why I ordered some shoes online a few days ago. I don’t usually shop this way. I still prefer the prehistoric way of human interaction. But it is too easy to succumb to the seduction of all those shoes flirting away on the screen, with views possible from all angles, top, left bottom, sideways…I could almost smell the leather in the description of each shoe. While I was shopping for myself, I thought I may as well order some for mon cheri to try out. And so our shoes arrived yesterday in 2 huge, heavy cartons.
I was girlish excited about these shoes I’ve ordered as they all were high heels. Not as high as I used to wear as a young fashionista, but still high enough to turn my plain ankles into delicate sculptures of art and lengthen my legs to supermodel status. Dressed in my pajamas and euphoric enthusiasm, I ripped open the cartons and lifted out pair number one. Black nu-buck Mary Janes. Mary Janes remind me of the Flamenco, a dance that I have loved since my childhood. I have had a few pairs in my days, so dare I have the desire for them again? So yes, visions of myself in silk stockings and a flaming red flamenco number(which I definitely will never fit into ever again…. but hey, these are my visions!) danced before me while I dug out some odd knee highs. I ignored the hurting of my arch and on the cushion under my feet where the foot arches and straightened my back. I was convinced it only came down to some moving about, giving my feet the proper time to adapt to the strangeness of a once familiar high heel. How hard can that be after all? So I started walking around, tilting my head at that sexy cat in pajamas, knee highs and Mary Janes in the long mirror. Then the music floated over from the computer and started whispering into my ear to do a little hip swaying, a twirl and a whirl. I felt good about my hips in these shoes and allowed the swaying to take over. Just as I thought I got the hang of these heels in my two stepping , I felt that ankle twist. In the split second that followed, I had the unbelievable clarity to see a whole chain of events happening. My free leg tried to step in to take the weight from the twisted ankle, but instead tripped over the twisted leg and sent me cannonballing sideways towards the floor. My jaw hit the corner of the art table with backstreet attitude and my flying arms slammed into the wooden art case, making it blast off the table with the intent to break through the sound barrier. The two cats,who were sleeping on the sofa right next to the table, soared into the air just to collide midair and with screeching voices changed direction to disappear like blind bats into the darkness of my pain and confusion. I lay there on the ground, not knowing whether I should stay there forever or come to a decision. I decided to stay there and see from which pain I would die first, the jaw or the foot or my bleak future with plain ankles and short legs. As it turned out, I didn’t die, I just cried for a very long time. But I did come to a final decision there among the tears and charcoal sticks on the ground. I now fully accept my future on flat feet. The table made the decision for me.