Saturday, May 29, 2010

Blast From the Recent Past

below you will find a link to a blog entry i wrote in another blog i used to keep but stopped writing in a couple of years ago.  i wrote this entry at a very difficult time, when so many things were up in the air and i was unsure of where i was going to land next.  i am posting it here because, while it is not as bad now, i again find myself feeling that little nagging push. that little voice inside me is starting to chant again, as if to remind me about a forgotten task, forcing me to remember why i started to take this walk.
(editing this. i forgot that i had put in a special access thing to that blog. i was, at the time, still hiding in the shadows. i'm slowly stepping out so i'm leaving it here for you to see)

this is how i started my spiral walk.


I wear three-inch heels almost every day. I wear these shoes to work as part of my corporate look - polished, sophisticated, woman-of-the-world-striding-confidently image. You can almost tell the mood I am in by the sound they make when I walk – crisp, clickety-click of stiletto points on tile, each click coming faster than the next when I am eager, or excited or working on something that I enjoy doing; an almost soft chick-chick sound in a constant, slow beat when I am thoughtful, or relaxed or turning thoughts in my head; loud, stomping clack-clack-clacks when I am angry, or agitated about something, or worried and rushing to fix things.

I like the way they make my legs look longer, the thin line of the heel attaching itself to the line of my calf gives the illusion of streeetttcccchhh. I love the way my pelvis tilts forward oh so slightly when I stand in them giving the illusion of a come-hither -pose- that’s- not. And when I walk - ooohhh girl, you should see the way I walk in them when I really MEAN to walk. Sashaying with a swish doesn’t even half-describe it. I can almost hear the queens calling me “SISTAH”!

I have worn high-heels to work for almost forever. I stopped for a few months last year – some fluke on my part. But I missed the sound they made and the queens quit waving to me and I missed that too. So I put them on again and strutted, tilted, posed and vogued once more. They felt good.

They also hurt my feet a lot.

I was puzzled over this new phenomenon – they never complained before. I thought they liked being displayed in open-toed platforms. As if that wasn’t enough, my ankles started to make noise too. They would throb annoyingly during the day as I vogued in my open-toed heels or classic 3-inch pumps. At night, they would ache long after I slipped my shoes off. And then my knees started to complain, then my calves started to cramp. Calcium supplements , muscle relaxants and Ben Gay suddenly became part of my grocery list. While I seemed to have accepted the situation as simply something that happens when one gets to a “certain age”, something in my gut told me (yes dear – my belly and I speak to each other a lot!) that it wasn’t that simple.

Last night, as I sat reading, my calves started to throb. I had been on my feet almost all day supervising the finishing touches on a move of four departments in our office from one building to another and a million other little things that took me rambling over the three floors that our office occupies. As I sat there trying to concentrate on my book, the reason for this sudden revolt from my feet and legs against my preferred footwear suddenly became clear – THESE WERE NOT MY SHOES! I was wearing the wrong ones! Not wrong as in the wrong size – but WRONG ones as in NOT the shoes FOR ME. I had been voguing and tilting and sashaying and POSING in shoes that my body KNEW was not for me. I had been faking it – thinking that the corporate life in high heels was a total fit for me when in reality, it was not. And I had done it so well for so many years that I actually fooled myself into believing that this was what I wanted.

I started to cry. As if in sympathy and to emphasize a point, my legs started to cramp big time. I knew why. All these years I had been walking a path that was not mine, in shoes that did not fit. I sobbed louder, the tears coming hot and fast down my face, dribbling randomly on the book that I held in my lap. I was soon bawling softly and I had to muffle them so as not to wake my nine-year old son who slept a few feet away, totally unaware that his mother was wrestling with the ghosts of stilletos past.

The only thing that stopped me from really breaking down was the thought that I now had a reason to go out and get me new shoes. Now, THAT would be an adventure! 

JULY 2008


Diane said...

looks like you have to have some kind of special access to read this article.

sharlene said...

woops! lemme fix that -- might as well copy the whole post on here.

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