Old lady shoes

In the first few weeks of living here, it became clear that my shoes were crap. They couldn’t sustain all the walking I was doing. I developed a pain in my heel, which probably came from my tight hamstrings and tension traveling down to my feet. (Where is the fetish taxista when you need him?)

I had to buy new shoes. (Phantom Crayton voice: “But you HAVE shoes!”) Actually, if I say I need shoes, Crayton believes me. And then sometimes I end up feeling really bad because occasionally I stretch the truth just a wee bit.

In this case, I really did need new shoes. (And 30 minutes with my Shiva Rea yoga DVD.)

I looked around in San Diego and annoyed everyone with my indecision. I pondered Keds, then nixed the idea because they seemed too casual for an afternoon at say, Contramar. I tried on orange Croc-esque flats and looked at my feet with such woe that Crayton said, “Those aren’t you, honey. It’s okay.”

I went to Ross — rekindling my love for the place; they have everything there! — and I almost bought a pair of Sketchers with raggedy velcro straps and a spot on the toe. In the checkout line I asked myself, “What am I doing?” I left instead with a pair of narrow, five-inch heels with a strap that ties around the ankle. If I’m going to be practical, one teensy little shot of shoe-tequila makes it go down better.

Finally, the day before we left, I found Clarks. I tried on three pairs of shoes there and liked them all. They weren’t necessarily cutting edge — or even anywhere near the edge; they were more like cowering in a corner somewhere — but they were comfortable and practical. I ended up getting all three pairs (one was an early birthday present). I wore my new pair of black slip-ons on the trip home.

They’d seemed fine and even cute in the store. But suddenly, walking around the airport and looking down at my feet, I felt old. The rounded toe called out, “I need room in the toe box!” The slight heel said “middle-aged tourist” more than “slim elongated leg.” I looked at other young girls in their heeled boots and thought of all the heeled boots and pointy toed shoes I’d known and loved.

I felt… 30.

Granted, when I got home, my feet were comfy, and I didn’t take off my shoes and throw them across the room like I sometimes do when I’m being foot-tortured.

Still, though, I dream about the moment when I get to wear those five-inchers with the ankle strap. There will be pain and maybe some cursing. At the end of the night, Crayton may give me the “What were you thinking?” look and heaving sigh. But at least I’ll feel sexy and young again.