it's not you, it's me

Dear high heeled/platform shoes and boots/ies,

The changing of seasons from winter to spring (and quite abrupt, at that) has caused me to reevaluate our relationship. Perhaps it is the lengthening daylight hours, or the sudden spike in outdoor temperature; perhaps it is the carefree atmosphere of patio drinking- of the jovial clinking of condensation-covered beer glasses over trivial conversation, the scent of grass clippings in the air, the sounds of sweet birdsong and country music stations through the open windows of cars driving by, or perhaps it's the promise of small town summer festivals and lazy days spent dripping sweat in the July humidity yet to come. Perhaps it is all of these blissful imaginings, but most of all,  my reintroduction to summer sandals and flats brought me to come to an epiphany on where we stand with each other (no pun intended.)

You see, my darling beautiful stilettos and precious pumps, being with ballet flats and colorfully beaded and braided thongs isn't so much new and exciting, but comfortable and warm and sweet and easy, like a worn-in oak rocking chair, or a Schwinn cruiser bike, or a Sunday morning egg bake brunch, or the way I feel when I drink whiskey. Of course, you and I have had our wonderful times, too, and I can't deny that you make me feel tall and strong and practically Xena-warrior princess-like and sexy and sassy all at once. We've traversed through snow, mud, on luscious green lawns and slippery slick ice together, and even made it up and down some rather precarious stairways. 

Yet, fabulous footwear, I am undeniably and innately clumsy. My mother recently confessed to me that she was embarrassed to go to my 8th grade volleyball games- I'd run around the court (making it painfully obvious that I was out of my element) and laugh when I made a mistake (which was more often than not). Further evidence of my lack of grace on any athletic court/field was that I didn't understand in 1997 why I fouled out of games during my short-lived junior high basketball career, and nearly fifteen years later, I still don't. I am the bearer of several burn marks on my hands and upper arms from hot pots and pans. I have a big lump remaining on my shin from a tumble I took down some steps more than six months ago (while wearing you, "Trace," in lavendar from ShoeDazzle). 

The physical trauma of our relationship has mostly healed, my dear toppling skyscrapers, but I experience phantom pains now when glancing at you in my closet when determining what my outfit shall be each day as I dress. I even sense empathy pains in my ankles and in the balls of my feet when perusing the online People mag gallery of "last night's look" and spot the most exquisite of designer creations on the feet of celebs. Something must be done, so I am doing it. 

It's not you, it's me. Truly, I say to you, soaring-soled friends of mine, the time has come for us to go on a break. Fret not, for this shan't be permanent. We are the Ross and Rachel of humans and their shoes- constantly turning and dipping and sashaying away from one another until our own special gravity brings us back to where we belong. 

And so, there will, of course, come a day when I come crawling back to you in order to complete a fab outfit with equally glamorous footwear. There will be a wedding. A bachelorette party. A high school reunion. A gig. God willing, a date.

We complete each other.

Until then, my heart, my shoe-collection-which-gives-me-the-breath-of-hope-and-life, please take care of yourself.

All my love,

Erin Teresa