12.17.2015

Heel Me

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 short 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 this thing. 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. 
Lest you think this is a silly post about shoes, be advised, I am dead fucking serious.


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? Of course I do. 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. Because 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. They elevate and carry us through the world. 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 stilleto 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 safely in my arms. My descent into flat, boring safety shoes has been slow and insidious. I reluctantly started using a cane, gradually sinking into a lower and lower heel. I told myself it was temporary, that it was to get me through a long day. But like a bad boyfriend or bathroom mould, before you know it, it’s always there and you can’t get rid of it. Canes don't respond to bleach or restraining orders. 

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.

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12 comments :

  1. As your mother, this post has me shedding a tear for you and for G. As a writer, it leaves me jealous of your ability to come up with clever words like shoeicide and perfect titles like Heel Me.

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    1. Thanks mom. But instead of tears, let us toast G as she would have wanted - by cranking the heat and eating a booze soaked fruitcake.

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  2. I've been in my wheelchair full-time for about 3 years now. For a while, I wore only comfortable "appropriate" clothes and shoes. These days, I've regained my confidence. I wear ridiculous heels, which I could never have walked in at the best of times, and let me tell you: It feels great! When I wear them I feel sexy, and womanly, in a way that only heels can make you feel. (Also, you'd be amazed how many women envy me for being able to wear them...)

    For every battle against MS that I've lost, the things that remain have become more precious. I defend them ferociously! So yeah: I feel you. Keep going, you're doing great :)

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    1. I LOVE this story. Thank you so much for sharing. Let us always find work arounds and never stop being gorgeous.

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  3. It's wonderful that you speak so eloquently about what the shoes mean to you. They're not just footwear. They represent so much more than that.
    Having danced in heels myself a few times I have a tiny idea of how good a sexy shoe can make you feel.

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  4. Seconding D Ellis' comment - one of the advantages of being a full time wheelchair user is the ability to wear high heels, outrageous boots, and racy stockings (well, I guess you can wear racy stockings as while ambulating, too).

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    1. I'm so happy to hear that this is a thing. Thanks Katja. Rock those shoes!

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  5. As I starting having balance issues from the MS I quit wearing my favorite shoes. No one around me understood how difficult it was to give up the "good shoes". They just kept looking at me like "they are just shoes". They couldn't understand how different heels make a woman feel. It is not just for outward appearance, it is an internal feeling of beauty and power and "kick-ass" sex appeal. Thank you for explaining it so well. And thank you all for giving me hope that even if my wheelchair becomes full-time, I can still rock a great pair of heels!

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    1. 'Kick-Ass' is exactly the feeling. Thanks for your note Sheri. I think it is important to recognize the power and importance of these seemingly trivial things and hang on.

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  6. I’m glad reading your blog style. Thank you for sharing your story.

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