“You shouldn’t wear high heels anymore.” The podiatrist delivered this devastating blow with a self-satisified sniff, barely glancing at my stricken face.
I replied with something akin to, “ARE YOU FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME?”
Now that I had the Dr.’s full attention, her demeanor became more consoling, her tone…almost maternal. Suddenly I was more than just another foot in her face; I was an exposed metatarsal who needed coddling.
Since about the age of four, I’ve had an innocent habit of sitting on my right foot, simply because it provided an elevated comfy cushion. Over the years this harmless peccadillo of mine has morphed into an angry pack of inflamed nerves between my third and fourth toes that flares up, willy-nilly, without any warning whatsoever. By ‘flares up’ I mean a sensation of being stabbed with an ice pick between the toes.
It doesn’t happen often–only four times in the past year–but the last time it happened, I looked around for a nice place to die. I was outside, near the Washington Monument, but it seemed too grandiose for me. I’m not a former President, or even a non-voting member of Congress. So I hopped along on one foot, like a tortured contestant in a sadistic game of hopscotch, to the nearest metro stop, which happened to be somewhere near Virginia.
No-heel shoes are almost as bad as high-heel shoes for me, so in the future I’ll be sticking to 1-2 inch platforms with good arch support. It’s like being punished without ever having committed a crime; like being condemned to wearing gray sweatpants in a world filled with brightly colored sarongs.
All things considered though, this couldn’t have happened at a better time. I’ve never really embraced the platform-front shoes that have become so popular these last couple of years. They remind me of the Frederick’s of Hollywood heels worn by the transgender fishwife hookers I used to see on Manhattan’s 9th Avenue while on my way to classes at The New School. Not a style I care to emulate. And, truth be told, for the past few years I’ve only worn heels when absolutely necessary (weddings, etc…). Silently and without any conscious decision on my part, I’ve evolved into a woman who cares more about comfort than style. The only logical explanation is that someone put an evil curse on me, probably in Greece.
But indulge me in moment of frivolity as I close this chapter of my fashionable footwear life with a requiem for some of my towering flights of fancy from years past:
Thank you, back-zip BCBG boots, for passing me off as a Femme Fatale. Sorry about that incident of trailing toilet paper at the Kennedy Center:
Thank you, Italian Milano boots, for your sharp and pointy tips that, in a pinch, could serve as lethal weapons. The way the world under-estimates me has always been my greatest weapon:
Thank you, Brian Atwood Daisy Dukes, for lowering my IQ by 50 points with a single glance at your stone-washed denim and red tassels: yee-haw, ya’ll. Wish I’d gotten more than one wear out of you, I don’t care how ridiculous I looked:
Thank you, German-bought Fornarina stilts, for adding five inches to my stature and making me feel like a Teutonic Valkyrie. I was once the tallest person in Malaysia thanks to you:
To my understated Chanel’s and Vaneli kitten heels: you’re not going anywhere. They’ll have to pry you off my cold, dead, feet.
© 2012, Ithaka Bound. All rights reserved.
