I'm Done With Heels

Part rant, part resignation and a whole bunch of links I've been wanting to share for weeks!

Welcome to another installment of The Bittersweet, where I share moments and memories from my search for a richer perspective on the bittersweet moments that make up modern life.

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They say a woman in heels exerts 20 times more pressure on the ground than an elephant’s foot. I don’t know how accurate that is, but I’ve never seen an elephant rubbing her feet after a night out. The way they walk in procession, trunk to tail, is like a meditation. Meanwhile, I squeeze my feet into heels, and I think I’m done.

Heels represent a level of “put-togetherness” I long for but rarely achieve. But, at 44 years old with an arthritic big toe, I’m ready to let go of my Carrie Bradshaw dreams.

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A few weeks back, Nick and I went to a fancy charity event. We’ve been several times, and it’s always a good excuse to rent a dress, get my hair done, and enjoy a night out alone with my husband. Our time together is limited to a few minutes in the morning when he’s trying to get to work and a few minutes in the evening when I’m trying to get to sleep.

The thing I was looking forward to most was the 25-minute drive to the venue, where I would have him all to myself.

This is a work event for Nick, so there’s a lot of smiling and shaking hands, but I don’t mind since most of his colleagues are really interesting people.

I once got into a long conversation with a few women about postpartum mental health that turned pretty passionate, only to learn a few hours later I was talking to the CEO’s wife. I replayed the entire conversation in my head, worried I said something weird. Later, I saw the CEO and was relieved to find out that she thought I was normal enough, or maybe we were the same brand of small-talk-adverse introverts. Either way, I have always enjoyed getting to know the people Nick works with.

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We had about a three-minute walk from the valet to the ballroom and by the time Nick handed me my club soda with lime, my left ankle was shaking. I looked around helplessly for a place to sit.

I do this to myself every time. I put on the heels, thinking my feet are younger and more flexible than they are, and 20 minutes later, my calf is cramping.

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Maybe I’m just out of practice. I danced all night in 4” heels in my 20’s, but as a SAHM I don’t often have the occasion to strap on the strappy sandals.

While I wish I could cultivate a look like this…

In reality, it’s more like this, including the fact that I always have too much stuff in my hands.

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We ate our dinner and chatted with the other people at our table. Last year, I was two months postpartum, sleep-deprived, with my heart not just on my sleeve but in a blinking neon sign above my head. I’m sure I was weird then.

I told another couple at our table who was pregnant with their second child and worried about the prospect of having a toddler and a newborn that having a son feels like the slowest, saddest break-up. Silence fell on the table, and I awkwardly laughed it off.

This year, I made it through the dinner conversation without any gaffes (at least, I think I did.)

As soon as the dessert plates were cleared and the music started up (they always hire a great band), I looked at Nick and said, “I’m ready,” and he was a little surprised.

Early in our marriage I used to have to beg him to dance with me for at least one song, but these days, with these feet, I have no desire.

We stood outside waiting for our car, and I leaned over to Nick and asked, “Would it be weird if I took off my shoes right now?” “Yes,” he said without hesitation, “You can wait five minutes.” I wasn’t sure I could, but I held my ankle as tight as I could and decided right then that I was done with heels.

I spent the week Googling things like “fancy flat sandals” and “sensible heels.” I think I landed on a few that might work. I’ll keep you posted.

This is where I am today. Thank you for listening.

Emily

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Linkspo

The Other Significant Others, a book about how friends can fill in the gaps of care in our later years. My dream elderly scenario involves living communally with my four best friends and their partners. We would have a garden, a painting studio, and a book club and go on walks and take care of each other. (The Atlantic)

Loved this conversation dissecting Beyonce’s turn to country music. It had me wondering, “Could Beyonce solve racism?” (Glamourous Trash)

My dream summer camp (LitHub)

Would you buy your childhood home? (Washington Post) It made me think of North Woods, a novel I read a few months back where rather than follow a character, we follow a house over hundreds of years.

What happens when journals move from analog to digital? I’m still keeping my spiralbound decomposition books. (New York Times)

SAHM / writer? What happens when the youngest goes to kindergarten? “I was writing but doing so in a way that was extremely marginal, by which I mean exactly that: it fit into the margins of my life… Since writing wasn’t my real job, I didn’t have to be that serious. I didn’t have to be that good or admit how badly I wanted it.” Man, do I feel this! (Cup of Jo)

Ever think about that one weird thing you said ten years ago and wonder if anyone else remembers it?

Never Not Nervous

Some pandemic highlights (New York Times) on the fourth anniversary of the day the world shut down. My personal silver linings: I ran every street in my city, I joined a writing group, and this book club, and my two oldest children were close enough to touch. It felt like the whole world was grieving with us.

A Bookish Death Cleaning. In 2024, I’m trying to buy zero books, though I make exceptions for book clubs when I can’t get the book on Libby in time. It’s very hard. I’m curious how I’ll feel at the end of the year when I’ll have almost no physical evidence that I read anything. (Reactor Magazine)

If you only have time for one thing… A personification of that book on your nightstand you’ve meant to read for over a year… Ha! (Electric Literature)

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