The other night my dear mother took me out for a night out in honor of my father’s birthday. He passed away more than a decade ago, but we still celebrate his birthday. We ate a delicious dinner, then enjoyed the opera at Symphony Hall. It was a fine, elegant evening.
Here’s the thing, though, my feet are killing me as a result. We parked in a garage near the opera hall and walked two blocks to the restaurant. Two blocks. Not even long blocks. Short blocks. Tiny blocks. Hardly even blocks at all. It was fine. Not a problem. I mean, I didn’t walk quite as quickly as mom, but her heels weren’t quite as high as mine. At least I don’t think they were.
They aren’t really that high, those heels. I would call them a “moderate” heel. They’re a cute pair of peep-toe sling-backs. I’ve worn them on many occasions, and they dress up an outfit beautifully. I hadn’t worn them recently, though. Apparently the last time I wore them I was younger and lighter. Well, younger for sure, I’m not sure about lighter.
I began to realize that they might not have been the best choice as we descended the metal stairs from the fourth level of the parking garage. As I clanged my way down my toes began to feel a little pinched. No big deal, I thought, I can handle this. I was happy to arrive at the restaurant and take my seat. I didn’t give my tootsies another thought until we were on our way back to Symphony Hall. Holy cow, my mom can move for a woman her age. I did my best to keep up. How embarrassing.
We got there early so we milled around the lobby before the doors were opened for seating. Finally we headed inside the theater proper. Our seats were on the aisle, so we kept popping up to allow people to go by. By the time the lights went down I was ready to remove my shoes. I didn’t though, because I knew putting them back on would be worse. The good news is the performance was magnificent, and had my full attention.
Intermission, on the other hand, was miserable. We hustled off to the ladies room along with every other woman in that theater, and stood in line. Fortunately it moved quickly, because by this point my feet just plain hurt. Normally my mother likes to wander the lobby. She often bumps into an acquaintance or two. These little exchanges make me somewhat uncomfortable under the best of circumstances, but add in achy feet, and I took a pass. I think mom was a bit disappointed, but she joined me back at our seats.
The second act was just as wonderful as the first, and the standing ovation was well deserved, if not comfortable. Then came the walk back to the parking garage and the climb up the metal stairs to the fourth level. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.
I think I may have to swear off heels for a while, until there is less of me to support on the balls of my feet. My honey doesn’t exactly tower over me, so I usually choose flats anyway these days. Maybe I’ll send those heels packing. They have served their purpose, and they no longer meet my needs. Meanwhile, my poor feet are still aching. Tomorrow I think I’ll wear tennis shoes.