January 10, 2012 § 3 Comments
A few years back I broke my pinky toe. Annoying, painful and a mere blip in the grand scheme of things. A few months after that I broke the big toe on the same foot. More annoying, more painful and much harder to deal with. I hobbled around, then walked with a cane for a few months and wore one of those hideous space boots, before graduating to sneakers and then moving on completely. Other than the odd twinge in my foot when the weather changes and the inability to wear high heels, I’ve all but forgotten about both breaks.
Until last week.
I was clearing out some old shoes when I discovered a stash that would give Carrie Bradshaw pause. While I was never prone to sky-high Manolos, for a while there I had a serious thing for sexy high heels and all manner of expensive and impractical shoes – and a former flame who encouraged my bad habit.
It was incredibly odd to discover box after box of mostly unworn designer shoes that not only hurt my feet, but had me tottering about in the effort to look if not feel fabulous. While I still have a weakness for cute (and comfortable) shoes, what I no longer have is the instinct to sacrifice my comfort or ability to walk for a misguided sense of fashion.
Looking through those shoe boxes was like a weird trip down memory lane, or I suppose what others feel when looking through scrapbooks.
Red patent leather Prada platform pumps bought for a meeting and worn instead to a flirtatious lunch.
Blush colored Jimmy Choo peep toes worn to one of my book parties.
White beaded suede Giuseppe Zanottis bought for a wedding that never happened – my own.
In other words, more than concert ticket stubs or love letters, these impractical and uncomfortable style statements reminded me of trying to cram myself into a beauty or fashion ideal that is no longer my own. And I’m okay with letting go of them.
Goodbye Cruel Shoes.