Heels over Head

I've taken a notion.

I have decided, very suddenly, for no good reason, and showing no common sense at all, that I should embrace heels.

I was never a big fan of the heel.  I've only ever worn them going out, and if I can get away with it, I don't wear them then. 
I was lucky enough to be young in the grunge years, when you were considered dressed up if your Doc Martens were the genuine article, so I never really got acquainted with the stiletto.

They look like instruments of torture, and let's face it we all know that that's what they are. 

But my work summer shoes, a pair of red pumps, have become shockingly shabby looking during their holiday under the stairs, and last week I decided that if I'm to carry on with any dignity whatsoever, I had to get a new pair.

I hadn't the slightest intention of buying heels when I went into the shop.  I went straight to the pumps section.  Not a single shoe there even caught my eye, an unusual occurrence enough.

As I wandered around, I caught sight of a pair of nude court shoes, with a much higher heel than I'm used to.
I remember a couple of years ago, when everyone who was anyone was wearing nude coloured stilettoes.  I remember it, because I was so jealous of the glamour that the other girls were prancing around in, that I got a burning pain in my jealousy zone ( a spot between the heart and the stomach, just at the bottom of the rib cage, and in the middle, in case you're nicer than me, and aren't familiar with your jealousy zone).

I knew then that I'd never be able to wear those shoes.  The combination of a back injury about six years ago, and a husband who is the same height as me in our stocking feet, put paid to any notions of glamorous heels some time ago.
Now, for some reason, when I saw them in the shop my first thought was
"Life is so unfair.  I'm a good person.  I should be allowed, at last, to have a pair of nude court shoes."

It dawned on me eventually that the only person stopping me is myself.  If I'm willing to put up with them, I can wear what I like.
I started to tell myself that shoes are different now than they were years ago, they're all wide fit or soft sole or designed to take the pressure off the balls of your feet, and I'd probably be fine.  I put the shoes on, walked around the shop for a few minutes, skidded twice and wobbled once, told myself the result was better than I'd expected, and I put them under my arm while I continued looking around.

Then I saw a pair of black suede shoes with tiny kitten heels.  I stopped and had a good old stare at them.  If I couldn't manage the court shoes, I'd still need work shoes, wouldn't I?  Maybe I needed a back up plan?  Under my other arm with them.

The obvious thing to do would be to put the first pair back on the shelf once I'd chosen the second pair.  But I didn't do that.  Because the black ones have almost no heels at all.

Regular readers will know that I turned forty a few months ago (God knows I made enough fuss about it at the time).

Dylan Thomas once wrote

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

I've developed a fear that I'm tending toward going gently into that good night.  It's too early.  I've a lot of fun to have yet.  And I feel that I should be having it in heels.
I'm worried that if I don't start wearing heels again now, I might be in orthopaedic shoes within a few years.

I was absolutely sure, by the time I got back to work that fateful lunchtime, that I'd never walk in the nude courts. 
I placed them under my desk, with all the other shoes, and began wearing the black ones.  I told myself that the whole project would have to be undertaken in stages.  I'd start off in kitten heels, and work my way up to the big girl shoes.
Obviously I should have gone back to the shop with them.  But I didn't.
And yesterday I decided that feck it, since it was Monday anyway, I might as well give the high shoes a try.  Better to break my ankle on a Monday than on a Friday, I told myself.  I don't know why.  I suppose things are so difficult on Mondays anyway that a broken ankle is all that you'd expect.

I warned my colleagues that I was taking a big step today, both literally and figuratively.  I suggested that if one or two of them wanted to walk beside me, ready to catch me when I fell, that might be a good idea.  They didn't seem keen.  I don't know why.

I wore the shoes anyway.  I'm as brave as a lion.  I got all the way to lunchtime without a stumble a trip or a fall.  Not even a blister to show for my efforts.

Did I celebrate this victory by smiling quietly and congratulating myself on still being able to keep up with the other girls?
I did not.
I put my pumps back on and insisted my good friend Ciara accompany me back to the same shop again.
I saw a lovely pair of shoes in there on Saturday. They were lovely, but even higher than the nude coloured pair I'd been wearing all morning.

For some reason I thought that if I could handle the court shoes, I should keep pushing myself.  Ciara, bewildered now, I'd imagine, by my utter lack of common sense, stood back and watched while I walked around in what I hoped would be my next victory.



I say I walked around.
I actually staggered around the shoe department, while the other shoppers jumped out of my way.  I caught a fleeting glance of myself in the mirror.  I would have run away too. 

I suppose Ciara thought she should be kind and try to talk me down, rather than just tell me what a twit I was being.  She suggested a more realistic pair for me.

 

But I wouldn't have it.  Sure they were only the same height as the nude courts.  What's the point in that?  Where's the challenge?
Then Ciara suggested that since I already have a new pair of black shoes, maybe I should just wear them.

Then she must have lost her head completely, because she suggested that I shouldn't buy any more shoes until I've worn out all the ones I already have.  I refused on the basis that I'll be dead by then.

I didn't buy anything yesterday.  I suppose I should calm down. One step at a time. 
And in my heart I know that within a week I'll be back in my flats.

After all, as a wise woman once said, if high heels were so great, wouldn't men be wearing them?