Four Inches of Optimism

I am ‘some parts of my life are allowed to stay unimpressive’ years old, and it started with my shoes.

There was a time when I believed a good shoe should require a little suffering. I have the photographic evidence: beautiful shoes with architectural heels, impossibly pointed toe boxes, designed as though the human foot had not been considered during development. My toes were expected to understand the assignment. I wore them happily. Or at least I wore them while insisting I was happy, which may not be the same thing.

These days my favorite shoes are Vans and Tevas. This is not the fashion plot twist thirty-year-old me fantasized about. My toes have formed a union and are no longer willing to report to duty inside what they consider unlawful confinement. I also drive a six-speed car with metal pedals and an 807-horsepower engine, which has introduced a practical element to my footwear decisions. A shoe can be gorgeous, but if my foot slips off the clutch with the back end of a gravel trailer occupying more of the windshield than seems emotionally healthy, we are going to have to admit the outfit wasn’t worth it. Nobody at the accident scene is going to ask whether the shoes elongate the leg…if they can find my leg.

I have reached the life stage when traction has entered the shoe-buying conversation. My younger self would like to have a word. I’d tell her Vans grip the pedals, our feet remain attached to us, and the gravel truck continues its journey without becoming part of our personal growth story... but she's busy pretending those shoes don't hurt. They also spare us the possibility of a stiletto wedging itself into a sidewalk crack and adding two new items to the three a.m. inventory of things that hurt. I don’t feel as though I’ve lowered my standards. I think I stopped confusing discomfort with effort. There are things I once tolerated simply because they looked good from across the room, and shoes may be the most visible evidence.

For a long time, I thought adulthood was an ongoing improvement project. There was always something that could be upgraded or made more presentable, and I was supposed to remain personally inconvenienced by the entire operation. I’m less enthusiastic about that arrangement now.

I still love fancy shoes. I’ll keep them far longer than logic supports because they are beautiful sculptures from a version of me who could spend long evenings balancing on four inches of optimism. I still wear them occasionally, and when they bring me to six-foot-two, I feel invincible. I prefer to enjoy that feeling while standing still or occupying a seat at Truluck’s bar. Glamour with dependable seating. I don’t need to dislike that woman to admit that I no longer want her feet. Most days, I reach for shoes that let me forget I’m wearing shoes. I want to be able to pull over because I found a trail worth hiking and then get back in the car and shift gears without seeing my life flash before my eyes.

That does not feel like surrender; it feels suspiciously like luxury. That's one of the best perks of growing up: comfort stopped feeling like something I had to earn after I had sufficiently impressed everyone. I can leave the house without making a case for myself; I no longer believe every part of life must be optimized for appearance. And when you see me sockless in my Vans or wearing my  running shoes with an outfit that has never been near the gym, please understand, I am fifty-five years old and have survived enough to believe the republic will hold.

Write on,

Cat

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