Lest you think this is a silly post about shoes, be advised, I am dead fucking serious.
I inherited my grandmother’s legs. My G was cool enough that we just called her G. She was self-aware enough to know her gams were her best feature. At 80, she was vain enough to insist on wearing a leg-revealing skirt and coat to an outdoor ceremony in the dead of a Montreal winter. I miss my G and her impractical dedication to fashion.
It was in this reckless spirit that I decided to throw caution to the wind and wear high heels to a Christmas party. What’s the big deal, right? Let me remind you that my last post was about how I spent a week in a wheelchair. No wonder people don’t understand multiple sclerosis. I wish I could tell you my rise to heels was thanks in part to some impressive improvements in my balance, foot drop and leg strength. I don’t know what I was thinking.
Yes I do.
I was thinking, this hem line requires a heel. That’s math. And like my G before me I understood that sensible has no place in fashion.
I know. I’m the worst. The heels thing sounds like so much bullshit. It’s shoes; an accessory. Don’t you have bigger problems?
Don’t you have MS?
Of course. Maybe that’s the cost of finding joy in small things. Sometimes small things can railroad you. But this doesn’t feel like a small thing. For me, heels represent femininity. Not for girls, this is the footwear of women. Practical and impractical, strong and sexy, they are a rite of passage; luxuries that are said to provide a sense of escapism in dire times.
Are these not DIRE TIMES?
Not to mention the power of the pump to say what mere words cannot. A stiletto can make an impressive entrance, but what about when you need to pivot on a dime, and storm out of the room with an angry staccato click-clack to reinforce an obviously justifiable rage?
Lumbering out in loafers is just so unsatisfying.
Before last Saturday, I can’t remember the last time I wore beautiful shoes. If I’d known they were going to collect so much dust in my closet I surely would have made more of an event of their last-ish appearance; drank champagne from them, or gone to sleep cradling them in my arms. My descent into flat, boring safety-shoes has been slow and insidious. I reluctantly started using a cane, while gradually sinking into a lower and lower heel. I told myself these modifications were temporary; that they were to get me through a long day. It was a desperate lie that I clung to; a way to stave off the inevitable grief.
Of course the sum of my presence is greater than that which supports me, but it is not untrue that what we wear impacts how we carry ourselves, and at least in my experience this starts with what’s on my feet (the state of my hair coming in a close second). The addition of a bulky orthotic strapped to my leg and crammed into my boot has necessitated sizing up, so not only am I required to wear low, sexless shoes, my slender Grecian toes have been transformed into clumsy Shrek feet. And I just have to accept this gracefully? What?
Over the past several months I’ve been contemplating shoeicide giving away my shoe collection. If my legs get stronger my old shoes will be out of style and in need of replacement anyway, right? But the truth is I‘m afraid to get rid of them, because maybe they won’t come back. The high heel has become a measure of something more than vanity. It’s about ability, and that’s the real devastation. I’ve lost a few battles to MS already, and I’m pathetically unwilling to wave a flag of defeat on this one.
So on this night, I tentatively donned a pair of Fluevogs. Not outrageously high, but legit heels. I extended my cane so the length would support me on the left and had The Banker on my right. I walked slowly and with concentration, feeling tall and gratified. I didn’t have many steps to take. I didn’t drink as many candy cane martinis as I might have in flats. I spent most of the night perched on a chair, legs crossed and ready to receive compliments, surrounded by some of my most lovely friends who said nothing of my irresponsible choice but only ‘Oh my God, I love your shoes’. My G would have been proud.