It wasn’t my intention to write about my younger self vs my current self this week, but it’s worked out that way.
I bought a dress for the wedding we’re attending this weekend a while back. It’s lovely, but I lack suitable shoes to wear with it. My foot attire consists of sandals, tennies, and boots (and seriously, I love Pasadena, but summer lasts until the end of October. I’ve had it with the scorching heat. It’s boot time for Pete’s sake!). I donated all my pumps along with my old work wardrobe a few months back, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because they were all black, and none of them would go with the dress. So this week I’ve been on the hunt for a pair of heels.
Have I ever told you guys I managed to convince myself for a number of years that I was five foot five? I’m not, I’m 5’3”, and that’s standing up as straight as possible. I always wanted to be tall. My sister is four inches taller than me, with long legs, and she never lets me forget it. Height just wasn’t in the cards for me, and I suppose I should be grateful for making it this far, because my mom is only five feet.
I’m not sure why I wanted to be tall, but it was something I longed for desperately. You know how some girls wished for a nose job, or bigger boobs, or straight hair? I wished for extra inches, and over the years I fudged enough times when asked about my height that eventually I began to believe the lie. Even my driver’s license said I was 5’5” (the ability to deny the truth about height came from my mom. To this day she will indignantly say that she is five foot one and a half, when she most certainly is not. She does not like it when we kid her about the white lie either. In fact, if she reads this post she’ll probably be highly annoyed with me – sorry Mom).
My love affair with high heels began somewhere around the age of twenty, and lasted for nearly a decade. I felt naked without them. Remember those super high platform shoes from the late 90s? I was all over those babies. All the height without the pain, I could run marathons in them, and heinous though they were I was a little sad when they went out of style. After that I moved to stilettos, and while I never mastered running in them, I could certainly walk long distances without cringing.
Not any more. Sure, I can still do boots, because your foot is completely supported. But balancing on heels that come to a tiny point is apparently no longer one of my superhero abilities. I wore the shoes I bought around the house today (with a pair of grungy shorts and a tank top, it was quite the look) to break them in a bit, and to make sure I don’t trip and fall tomorrow. No dice. My feet are plotting the rest of my body’s demise as we speak. They’re sitting only shoes, any movement is going to have to be accomplished by my husband pushing me around on a dolly, or something. He actually went with me on one of my shoe finding missions, and seemed puzzled as to why I couldn’t just wear flats with the dress.
Note to husband – please don’t bring that up tomorrow when I am whining about my feet. Yes, you were right.