I’d been meaning to catch up with Blondie for months. We finally met at the train station to go downtown for drinks. There was lint on her coat and her eyes were puffy. Her cheeks were pale against her hot pink satin scarf. But she wore a black knit cap that made her look like a 1920s movie star. Walking through the ramp, our train about to depart, I don’t feel like rushing:
—We don’t need to run to catch this train, do we?
—Nah, there will be another one in a minute.
—Exactly. No need to run in heels and break an ankle, anyway.
—Oh my God. Or break a heel!
(And that’s un tacón, no un talón.)
Amen to that.
II.
Two rose petal martinis later, at the train station again. Blondie says, ‘you must have a lot of shoes.’ I say, ‘I do. But I think I’ve managed to ruin my feet in the last year. I’ve never walked as much in heels as I have over the last year. I was really proud of myself. And my ex used to love it. But now I can’t get comfortable in any kind of shoe!’ Then, sadly: ‘And I do love shoes.’ Blondie says: ‘Lately I prefer to wear sneakers, to be honest (she giggles). My grandfather was a podiatrist. He always said, wear comfortable shoes.’
III.
Birchside Street is pleasantly dark and residential, quiet except for the click-click-click-click of my steps. I walk slow and steady and ponder the fact that I never feel unsafe in my neighborhood. (My first women’s studies prof used to call high heels ‘victim shoes.’) My feet hurt, yet I have the uncanny conviction that I can blaze if I had to.
Alone in my bed, I ask myself two questions. Will I really have to buckle down and wear Naturalizers one day? (The horror! How soon?)
And, Who ever heard of a podiatrist who was fabulous, anyway?
Cuddled up in my bed with my life in control, I rub my throbbing sore feet together and still feel invincible. And tall. And I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with the shoes.
Maybe it’s all attitude.
—We don’t need to run to catch this train, do we?
—Nah, there will be another one in a minute.
—Exactly. No need to run in heels and break an ankle, anyway.
—Oh my God. Or break a heel!
(And that’s un tacón, no un talón.)
Amen to that.
II.
Two rose petal martinis later, at the train station again. Blondie says, ‘you must have a lot of shoes.’ I say, ‘I do. But I think I’ve managed to ruin my feet in the last year. I’ve never walked as much in heels as I have over the last year. I was really proud of myself. And my ex used to love it. But now I can’t get comfortable in any kind of shoe!’ Then, sadly: ‘And I do love shoes.’ Blondie says: ‘Lately I prefer to wear sneakers, to be honest (she giggles). My grandfather was a podiatrist. He always said, wear comfortable shoes.’
III.
Birchside Street is pleasantly dark and residential, quiet except for the click-click-click-click of my steps. I walk slow and steady and ponder the fact that I never feel unsafe in my neighborhood. (My first women’s studies prof used to call high heels ‘victim shoes.’) My feet hurt, yet I have the uncanny conviction that I can blaze if I had to.
Alone in my bed, I ask myself two questions. Will I really have to buckle down and wear Naturalizers one day? (The horror! How soon?)
And, Who ever heard of a podiatrist who was fabulous, anyway?
Cuddled up in my bed with my life in control, I rub my throbbing sore feet together and still feel invincible. And tall. And I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with the shoes.
Maybe it’s all attitude.
