July 29th, 2013


I wore these Manolo Blahniks one time a decade ago for the Skirt! 10-year birthday party, and I wore them hard that night. They’ve been in my “shoe museum” ever since. If you asked me now why I splurged on such a frivolous, uncomfortable, thoroughly useless pair of shoes, the only answer would be that I was an idiot. But they really are little works of art, and I like to recall that night whenever I look at them. Last week, though, I mailed them off to my 9-year-old granddaughter, who will love clomping around in them while she’s dressed up like Queen Elizabeth I or whatever super hero is in her current repertoire. Letting go of what I no longer need is usually easy for me because I hate clutter, but these shoes must have represented giving up on some version of myself that actually never existed. It nudged me to wonder what other stories I’ve told myself about my life are no longer useful or true. To blow them a kiss and release them. Sure, I’m a little sad to give up the secret idea that I could still be a dance-in-the-fountain girl. I did it once long ago on a first date, but deep down, I was never a true party girl. Maybe what I’ve been all along is just as good and doesn’t necessarily consign me to wearing sensible pumps. I’ve got my cowboy boots, high tops, motorcycle boots, delicate ballet flats with ankle straps and saltwater sandals…and they all still fit my life.

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