Standing My Ground

Magnify

While sorting through old clothes last week, I realized with some amazement that I haven’t worn a pair of high heels for at least a year. Gazing at my old shoes, heaped forlornly together on the floor of the closet, was like thumbing through the pages of a tattered journal, and I wondered at the self who once considered them essential to her wardrobe. I vaguely remember the woman who stepped out in these shoes; she danced in strappy heels in darkly hip basement clubs, and by daylight, wore conservative pumps which matched her briefcase. Was that really me who shopped for maroon or white heels to accent a suit and toted all the shoes off to the repair shop so regularly that the proprietor knew me by my first name? I wore each pair thoroughly, and when they’d pretty much self-destructed, I gave them a proper Goodwill burial before prancing off eagerly to buy a replacement.

I remember my first high heels ever, a gift from my mother when I was nine years old. She might as well have given me wings. Constructed of clear plastic with silver glitter and held on by pink elastic straps, the shoes sparkled so magically I couldn’t take my eyes off them, and I wouldn’t take them off, which meant that after school, I spent inordinate amounts of time wobbling around the house staring at my own feet. I was suddenly taller, lovelier, even grand—it wouldn’t have surprised me a bit to suddenly discover that I was a member of the royal family and had been living with imposters all along.

I loved my heels, and well into adulthood cherished the height, the grace, the maturity a good pair lent instantly to any outfit. But these days, my princess self has reluctantly stepped closer to the ground. I resist the allure of shoe store windows and the glamorous patent pumps in fashion magazines, only rummaging through the multi-hued pairs of pantyhose languishing in my bureau drawer when looking for a last pair of clean knee socks. A few black high heels, clustered together like abandoned puppies, gather dust in a shoebag on the back of the bedroom door, maybe for all eternity and at least until New Year’s Eve. I don’t know how it happened, but my feet are back where they belong—in boots.