I Was Told There Would Be Cake
Essays by Cat Rainwater

I used to buy shoes as though my feet were decorative. They have since requested representation. I still love a heel that brings me to six-foot-two, where I feel invincible until someone suggests walking to the car. These days, glamour requires dependable seating, and traction is a selling point. My younger self would be horrified. I’d explain, but she’s busy pretending those shoes don’t hurt.

I think we all need a witness. Someone who notices when the plan changes. When the job you thought you’d retire from disappears. When the business works until it doesn’t. When your hormones sneak out in the middle of the night and take your sleep, patience, metabolism, and tolerance for nonsense with them.