I Miss My High Heels

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I broke a bone. I almost made it to 50 without having done so.

I was saving broken bones until I was well into my 80s. I imagined myself breaking a hip while running down a cobblestone street in 6-inch leopard stilettos at night chasing the ice cream truck on my 86th birthday. But instead, a sneaky little root in the woods while trail running stripped me of that hope. I broke my fibula (I had to Google it too.) And I’m now on week six of this mother &#%*! boot with at least two more to go. I. Am. OVER IT. Now I realize this “could have been worse”… or “there are people with so many more serious things”….and I know that. However, this is MY shit.
Anyone who knows me, knows I’m something of a sideshow. It’s not a deliberate act, it’s who I am. I have this persona where I do the high heels, the hair, the dicey conversations and inappropriate commentary. I am fucking LOUD and it’s hard to miss my existence based on how annoying I am. I’m a lot, and by no means am I apologetic.
Since my mishap, I’ve not been that woman. I couldn’t figure out why I was feeling so down and despondent. I mean it’s not a permanent situation so just deal with it, right?  But I can’t seem to force myself feel that way. I feel withdrawn and quiet. And I know why but I didn’t dare let anyone know for fear of being judged or ridiculed. I’m not at my full capacity. It’s like this boot has me hostage….keeping me from my “full performance self.”

I am the woman who wears her big shoes, feels much taller than the 5’2 she stands at and is RARELY down.

How can a piece of plastic and Velcro have such an impact on a me? A woman who is seemingly strong willed and unaffected? That’s just batshit cray. I walk around with this thing and I feel like one of the Transformers. Like I’m about to morph myself into a souped up Ford F-450 with mag wheels and a duel exhaust and blow right out of the Stop and Shop parking lot. And wearing a cute little sundress and dragging along a moon boot that doesn’t match ANYTHING and looking like I’m about to be thrown into a hockey game as the backup goalie.
It’s like its own entity. It’s taken away my edge. Frivolous? Yes. And I don’t really care because it’s how I feel and suck it if you think I’m being a douche.

No road race, no riding my bike, no long walks around Martha’s Vineyard. Summer lock down of 2019.

I am however able to workout and you bet your ass I do because I’m not sure it would be safe for anyone within slapping distance if I didn’t. I need somewhere to spend my energy and frustration. I modify a lot which also kind of sucks but I’ll take it. It’s not so much me feeling sorry for myself, more like pissed off and need to let the world know. I will absolutely get over it. And again, before one more of you roll your eyes while reading this, I am well aware this could have been worse.

I’ve been able to find some silver linings.

Like when a restaurant wait is long, I dramatically drag my leg behind me like Quasimodo and there suddenly “may be a table waiting” or cutting in line, or cute guys offering to help me put my groceries in the car. Shit like that. The point here is, whether you cut your finger on a knife, break a bone or are dealing with an even greater life-altering health issue…..none of it is small or irrelevant if it’s affecting YOU. My dear friend Suzanne told me it’s OK to be compassionate to someone dealing with waaaaay bigger things than a broken bone, but don’t negate what’s happening within you. It’s OK. I thought I was a lot more apathetic than I really am.

Turns out I’m just a big baby who is simply annoyed that the four new pair of summer high heels I bought in June are sitting in my closet, being all high and sexy and waiting to be worn.

I will be having a boot buzzsaw party once I’m set free from this hostage situation and you’re all invited!

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