When I was seventeen, I fell in love with a pair of shoes. It was $70 at the time, which to any seventeen year old should be a ton of money. I mean, $70 shoes are still a huge deal to me. These were the very best kind – they had blues, golds, and glitter. I was in love. They even had a goldish bow right on the toe. I bought them, determined to have a reason to wear them at some point in the future.

….. Fast forward some eight years to last spring, when I did finally have a reason to wear them. I put them on, twirled, and took a few steps. The damned shoes didn’t work. My heels slipped out of them, my toes curled tightly to try to hold on but couldn’t quite manage. The whole thing was a mess.

But more than that, it was a letdown. I still have them. I’ve been unable to part with them. They somehow stand as a marker of my own financial independence and prudent judgement. (Just kidding about the last one.)

Yesterday I went to a wedding tasting for my dad and his fiance. The chef had created a menu for them, and since I’m not only opinionated but a semi-picky eater, I was the perfect choice to accompany them. I picked up my grandmother and we headed out to mingle with the very wealthy at the country club they’ve selected as their venue. Honestly, I’d love nothing more than to be rich, or at least wealthier. (Any amount of money would make me wealthier than I am now, so there’s that.) But then again, being wealthy means that you have to do so much status upkeep, which isn’t really my jam. I don’t enjoy small talk, or keeping up with someone else for the sake of appearances, and I do tend to agree with Biggie about the correlation between money and problems. Okay, but on the side of pros for the rich, the pools have waterfalls. How can you not be into that?

I’m digressing. Hard.

Dressing for a tasting is difficult. You need to look authoritative, but also make sure that there’s room for some waistline expansion through the course of the meal. I selected a dress. And then it came time for shoes — ugh.

I squeezed into a pair of heels. My big toe doesn’t wiggle correctly and shoes are a problem now. (Surgery on the tendon worked, but sort of didn’t.) I tried so hard. This was the first time I’ve tried to wear heels since my surgery at the end of March. I had them on for about thirty-five seconds before trying to walk, failing, and pulling them off. So instead, I drove out barefoot and then slipped into flip-flops in the parking lot.

Talk about authoritative.

It remains to be seen whether I’ll ever be able to wear heels, but for now, I’m still struggling with stupid things like hiking and walking, so I think it’s best that I set the dream of heels aside and pick it up again later. Talk about a letdown. I even have quite a spread of really suitable conservative pumps. Think of the wedges! As we speak, I’m wiggling the toe, trying desperately to get it to move again. Come on, big toe!