This Is Going To Hurt
I sprained my ankle. Fell off my own shoe and twisted it because I’m the idiot wearing three-inch heels around the house, practice-walking so I don’t embarrass myself in public.
I Googled “walking in high heels” before I took step one. Held onto a wall like a toddler holding mommy’s hand before I flew solo, head dipped low to watch every awkward step so I didn’t trip over my own feet.
I stumbled. I righted myself and I kept on walking.
I should never have attempted any of this. Wearing heels is high on the list of things to stop doing when you hit a certain age.
I don’t care.
I’ve had enough of people telling me what to do. Seriously. I grew up reading Glamour and Cosmo and Mademoiselle. I’ve got complexes to last a lifetime.
Also, I’m apparently so freaking old now that I no longer have time for random lists of demands. Even AARP, the exact same people who are supposed to have our backs, posted a What Not To Wear list.
On the off chance you’ve never seen one, here’s some perennial advice from self-stylistas.
Ditch the short skirts.
Yes, I know. My legs aren’t what they used to be. I’m not blind, but I’m also not interested in your opinion about my ankles. I like them, despite the swelling from a recent mishap.
No Skinny Jeans
Also, no low-rise jean, no Mom jeans, no ripped jeans, no borrowing jeans from your daughter. So really, no jeans.
Also, no elastic waistbands
Especially on jeans. That leaves parachute pants, sweat pants, choir robes and a nice pair of khakis from L.L. Bean. (Sorry, spoke to soon on the sweat pants. Cross those out.)
Don’t even talk to me about shoes. I’ll sum it up by saying wear sneakers, but not ones that look like sneakers.
Any more questions? The quick answer to everything is probably a sad head shake. (You’ll miss the eye roll without your glasses.) Or give Google a minute. You’ll have your own long list of things to give up now that you’re an ancient crone.
The listicles go on for pages. Don’t read them. Any of them. They’re as toxic as reading comments on Facebook. (You still have Facebook? Of course you do, Grandma.)
These very cute navy suede heels currently propped on my desk should be in the donation box. They’re staying on because I’ve never really had the chance to wear anything like them. My careers — all of them — demanded comfortable clothes. Twenty miles in the bowels of Madison Square Garden are not work days made for heels. So I’m giving it a shot. Even though my toes have fallen asleep. Even though my arches are screaming for relief.
Everything hurts the first time. (There’s a lube joke in there somewhere.) It doesn’t mean you shelf it and go running for your safe word. Tread carefully. Make your own rules. Life doesn’t end because some millennial pundit tells you to go die before you use up all the social security.
It ends when it ends.
You might as well stumble forward and meet it looking like you made an effort to live. And believe me, cute shoes are going to help.
