Mourning My Newfound Practicality

I can’t believe it either. Today, I bought shoes far more sensible than I wanted. Convincing The Boy*-- after complaining of my Sharpie-aided “repairs” wasn’t enough-- that boots with broken heels just wouldn’t get me through the next two seasons, I ventured out to buy new black boots. It wouldn’t be my preference, but I live in boots in these, the least fair of seasons. Because they just make sense. And I know, my life is changing; my footwear needs are changing. I just wasn’t prepared for the sensibility that overcame me this afternoon.

They are my first pair of Aerosoles. My feelings were as mixed as the signals I unintentionally delivered to unsuspecting men in the days before I met The Boy. As you can see above, they are pant boots; not those awful “booties” I will never understand, and not the knee-length hooker boots I so adore. That’s not what makes them sensible. Referring back to the visual aid, you will notice the heel is only about two inches high, and it’s far from stiletto. I winced, spotting the red, pointy-toed, black-heeled stilettos across the aisle, then eyed my black, square-toed reliables. With rubber soles. And cushioned insteps. Neither of those amenities has been on my list of must-haves—let alone in my closet—since my parents funded my fetish. And even then, it was only when Dad paid.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I don’t feel these shoes are frumpy. But they are a completely different species than the knee-high street-walker boots that strike fear in the hearts of cockroaches in corners everywhere that I have in my closet. And love beyond all reason. I feel scandalous in those shoes, sometimes apologizing with my eyes when both women and men raise disapproving eyebrows. Then, sometimes I don’t apologize.

There will be no raised eyebrows as I stumble (because, let’s face it, shoes can’t change everything) through life in my Aerosoles. There will also be less limping, less complaining from The Boy about how slow I move when he insists on walking everywhere, even when it’s freezing, less foot pain, fewer shin splints. Less. I fear that I will grow so accustomed to walking without pain, that my beloved stilettos will go unworn. Walking out of Off Broadway with my sensible purchase, I had the distinct feeling that this was only the first of many times I would depart a shoe store, forlorn, knowing that I had acquired what I needed, but that was all. These shoes are my spinach; roughage for the soul.

* For those wondering why I would need to convince The Boy before making a purchase, never fear, that rant is coming soon.