I have a bunion on my right big toe. Also, arthritis. Same toe. Poor little digit. A first cortisone shot, disappeared the pain. For about 18 months. Then it came back last summer after a sprained left ankle wobbled my gait, putting more pressure on my right foot. A second cortisone shot provided short-lived relief. My doctor warned me about the diminishing returns. I didn’t expect them to be quite so diminished. Now the pain has flared to a steady, yet manageable level. I’m allowed to run. Even moderately long distances.
What I can’t do is wear heels. And I love heels. I used to be able to not only wear heels but also walk miles in them. Ridiculous. Vertiginous. Platform. Spike. Precarious. I felt sexy and kick ass. I loved them all the more, because I wore the heels after running miles. I loved the crackle of the contradictory footwear coexisting and all the meaning they contained about who I was. I wasn’t only girly. I wasn’t only a runner.
Of course, the heels weren’t truly comfortable. My feet would be sore at the end of an evening. Well, my feet were sore at the end of a long run, too. I was thrilled when Citibike (the shared social bike system) came to New York. Less walking in heels. More riding a bike in heels (so fun). I’m not sure which one caused the bunion—the running or the heels. I have my suspicions, based on which one has become inaccessible. In the end, it doesn’t matter. The pain is.
I would look in my closet and long to wear the heels so neatly aligned on my shoe rack. Every once in a while, I would try to put them on, searing myself with the pain. Why couldn’t I just get rid of them? After all, I’ve been in purge mode these last couple of years. I left my marriage with almost nothing from our joint home. I moved around a bit, trimming down my life. I shaved off my long hair.
Yet, I’ve never parted with my heels, even as I knew I couldn’t wear them. Then, a month ago, I thought, now is the time. I sent a little video tour of the shoes to a friend who wears the same size. I brought her a giant bag of heels on the night of my birthday. I am so glad she’s going to enjoy them.
I also felt an amount of grief that I judged to be inordinate. They’re just shoes. Yes. And they were a symbol of a part of me that I don’t want to lose. Insouciant. Bold. Attractive. Now I have to find that in myself, without the shoe-assist. Or maybe that sense of self is already there, if I can just find it. I felt good in heels, because I was strong. A runner. An athlete. Not was. Am. Because I’m still running (and biking and dancing and cross-country skiing and, and …). In the choice between running shoes and heels, there’s no contest. My running shoes are soulmates.
The night my marriage blew apart, I went out to meet a friend in desperation. As I walked out the door of what would soon no longer be my home, the high heel on my patent leather boot from Paris snapped off. Total destruction. No chance of repair. It’s been just over three years since that night. A few days ago, I learned that my divorce was final. I had dinner with the same friend a few hours later. Wearing sneakers with glitter. She was wearing fabulous, crazy platform sandals. I felt a pique of desire for her shoes. For that feeling. And then I caught a glimpse of that sparkle inside of me. Waiting for me to see myself.
Lovely post, Mina. I am glad you are finding your inner sparkle.
I have had bunions since I was 18. They have gotten much worse in the last several years, although they don’t hurt unless they are being squished. I haven’t worn heels in at least 10 years (once in awhile I’ll find a pair that ar bearable for a function for a couple hours and bring flats for later). I have been able to wear platform shoes, etc. as long as they are not sloped. There are a lot of fun options out there these days.