My shoes look a lot like this: brown, basic, sensible, sturdy. No heel.
Are you surprised? I’m the same woman who wore flip-flops to a fancy Manhattan party. No matter how hard I try, I could never wear shoes like this: Pink, Satin, 10 inch heel. Strappy.
Put me in shoes like these, and I’d entangle the heel in my clothing; I’d fall into the street; I’d look like a fool. But every once in a while, I think that I’m supposed to wear high heels. And they have to be satin and pink and absolutely adorable.
Once I asked my friend (she wears 10 inch heels regularly, with jeans even) if her shoes were comfortable.
“Of course not! I’m in excruciating pain!” she hollers at me. She has to walk back to the parking lot from our building. She’s barely making it. I think I see blood.
My shoes, in comparison, look beyond boring. What happened to all my sass?
Many years ago, I chose to throw off the conventions that torture rather than free, that bind rather than release. I’ve spent too much of my life entangled in fancy externals that masquerade as the good life. In that life, the things that promise freedom actually oppress. You know it because of the pain. You know it because you’re following some rule about what’s supposed to make you happy. And you can’t remember what you love anymore. Instead, you’re living a cliche as scripted as pink satin 10 inch heels.
They aren’t me. They were never me. I love comfy shoes that I don’t have to think about.
Release the buckle and strap, slip off the entanglement, and run free.