I had a really nice time last night. I went to a party at McCabe, Duval + Associates — they’re on the top floor of a building in the Old Port with amazing views of the waterfront. The theme was a summer picnic, French bistro style. I decided to dress in my version of casual French. I put on black capri pants and a long sleeved fitted dark purple t-shirt and slipped into a pair of black flats. My twenty something daughter is living with us for the time being and I’ve gotten into the habit of running outfits by her before leaving the house. Each time I realize that I am risking humiliation, but she has given me invaluable advice and claims to have saved me many times from public humiliation on a much grander scale. She nodded slowly as she sized up my outfit and then stopped cold when she hit my shoes. “Not flats, mom, you should wear heels.” I don’t wear heels anymore. I was knocked over by a couple of dogs several years ago while walking on the beach and got a compression fracture in my spine. I fell going down the stairs a few years later and ended up with more than two dozen stitches in my head and a mild concussion. I am terrified of falling. Besides, I’m 64-years-old. Flats are safer. That’s what I tell my daughter. She says “Mom, you were walking barefoot on the beach and wearing sneakers on the stairs. It’s not the shoes you should be worrying about. Try these on.” She hands me her pair of canvas high heels from Beans, which look great with the outfit and just fit.
I am not quite convinced though. I feel shaky and unsure, but I don’t take them off. I practice walking. I go downstairs, slowly and carefully, clutching my flats in the hand not clutching the railing. I ask my husband if he thinks I should wear the heels. He doesn’t say yes or no — such a diplomat! Instead, he suggests I bring the flats with us just in case. I stuff them into my purse and strut out the front door. In a good way. Not pompously, but proudly. I pay attention to how I walk, which I realize improves my posture. I feel stronger, straighter, younger. OK, yes, I admit it, I felt younger. On the way to the party I found myself reminiscing about high heels I had loved. There was the pair of rust-colored high-heeled ankle boots I bought in the 80s. I saw them and I just had to have them. The word impractical never even entered my mind. All I saw was “hot!” Then there was the pair of red stilettos that matched my fabulous red dress with the cap sleeves and wide belt. When I wore that dress and those shoes, I thought I owned the universe. And I remember sprinting across a field in my black patent leather slingback pumps with a microphone in my outstretched hand trying to catch someone I wanted to interview. Never occurred to me to take off the heels. I still have them, only these days it never occurs to me to put them on. But last night I threw all caution to the wind and went to a party wearing high heels and I didn’t even trip! Good food, good wine, good people, and a good time for both me and my husband. When we walked back to our car, I was grateful that it was just around the corner and that the crosswalk was paved with bricks instead of cobblestones. I slid into the passenger seat and because the shoes were feeling tight by then, took them off and propped my feet up on the dashboard. We cranked up the radio and all the way home my feet and I danced with joy.