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As I ambled along Park Avenue to the Honors Bridge Club, I noticed a woman hobbling in steep wedge espadrilles. She was a good 30 years younger than I. I flew past her in my sneakers. Then I saw another woman in skinny black heels, a tight black skirt, carrying a coffee. As she teetered along, I whooshed past her, too.
I used to wear high heels and tight skirts. I used to wear a lot more makeup, sweaters that itched, jeans that squeezed, clothes that clung. I looked in the mirror more, too. I thought I was rockin’ it back then. No pain, no gain. Thank you, Jane Fonda.
Last winter I was on vacation with my husband, Stretch. We were strolling along a sunny beach, our feet sinking into the warm sand, when I saw a woman with blow-dried highlighted locks, an iron board stomach and toned limbs dipping her pedicured toes into the tropical waters, not a flaw on that flesh. Rather than be envious, like I would have in my youth, I thought, gosh, that looks like a lot of work.
Later that day, I went swimming, wearing a straw hat to hide the hair I hadn’t bothered to style. Just then, I got tossed in a wave, white foam enveloping me as I swam to the surface and spotted my hat floating away. My hair was full of sand, ditto my swimsuit. A young girl ran into the sea to fetch the hat. We both laughed. It felt good to be alive and in nature.
That was not how I grew up. My mother was a strikingly attractive woman. Beauty mattered to her for most of her life until dementia rendered vanity superfluous. Born in 1933, my mother came of age in the 1950s. She was tall and shapely, a model’s figure that could carry off those cinched-in waists with ease. She had a swan-like neck and never left the house without a swipe of lipstick and professionally coiffed hair. Heels were a given.
I was taught the importance of beauty from a young age. By 6, I understood that my legs were good, my nose not so good. By 12, I learned the top half of my face was superior to the bottom half. A nose job was offered to me for my 18th birthday. I’d asked for a watch. She was always handing me lipstick to improve those thin lips of mine.
And my hair ... my mother didn’t quite know what to do with it, constantly pushing wayward strands behind my ears. My hair was thick, strong and unruly, a lot like me. I left home as soon as I could and never became the glamorous socialite my mother would have applauded. She loved me certainly, but was puzzled by my choices.
My mother was like the world’s movers and shakers, the people who wore fancy clothes, footwear and handbags. When she got dementia and stepped out of her satin slingbacks into a pair of slippers with grip, she stopped complaining about my choices. When I spend time with her now, she offers me a cup of tea instead of a tube of lipstick.
Lately, I realize that I’ve become, not just grounded in my choice of footwear, but in the relationships I seek. I avoid people who have an agenda, who confuse networking with friendship, and who value form over content. I choose people who make me feel seen, who make me laugh and get me, people who are warm and generous. Cozy people. Human sneakers, if you will.
When I met my second husband, Stretch, on a date 10 years ago, he was sitting on a bar stool. I remember thinking how good-looking he was. Then he stood up. Stretch is 6’5 “to my 5’5” when my hair is fluffy and clean. I started wearing platforms so I could at least see eye-to-shoulder.
My kids took one look at my lofty footwear, and chorused, “Mom, you’re going to break your ankle.” Back then, I thought it was worth the risk. Now, I think: why should my husband stride ahead of me because he gets to wear comfortable shoes? I traded in those skyscrapers for some cushiony sneaks. It turns out it isn’t such a big deal to have Stretch bend down to kiss me. I’m more stable — and more kissable — in my flats.
One of the perks of aging is realizing that chasing beauty takes time away from other more rewarding endeavors. And at 62, I don’t have as much time as I used to. I’m at an age where people start vanishing. My 45th high school reunion is approaching. Rather than focusing on how I’ll look, I'm reflecting on the memorial for the 20 classmates who have already died. I’m hyper aware that I want to make the most of my time here.
I treasure walking without pain. I care more about seeing the world than worrying about what the world sees when it sees me.
The other day, my two-year-old granddaughter Ava started jumping up and down, a new move for her. She loves jumping with her Ellie, my granny moniker. She then asked me to play tag and be “It." When Ava got tired of running, she said, “Carry you,” which meant, “Carry me,” in Ava speak.
Fortunately, I had dressed for the occasion; stretchy trousers for bending and trusty trainers for bouncing and chasing.
I still have a few pairs of steep heels, objects of beauty that I may wear on special occasions, but mostly for Ava. Any decent dress-up closet needs a few pairs of shiny, uncomfortable heels.
But when dressing up is done, I’ll reach for the shoes that don’t make me wince. My wincing days are over. I’ll slip into my sneaks and join Stretch for a marathon stroll.
When's the last time YOU wore high heels? Let us know in the comments below.
Amber Day
Follow Article Topics: Fashion
