I miss my heels. When I lived in Trinidad, I wore heels everyday to work, teetering joyfully on them along the road, down clip-pity clop hall ways all the way to my classroom where I kicked them under my desk and taught barefoot. My room was air-conditioned so I was never hot, nor sticky and less frizzy (unless there was a rare power cut and then I turned into the wild witch of 207.) Now I have turned into one of those women who wears somewhat pretty clothes but with… Birkinstocks. Yes. I said it. I know who you are and you can pick your jaw up off the floor. One good friend in Montreal, after showing her my brand new and second pair, exclaimed “one is an exception but two is a problem.” “Now,” she said, “ you have turned into one of them.”
I have worn heels exactly twice in 8 weeks and it was agony every time. The walk from my class room to the staff room involves staircases, long walks past plants and seemingly miles of hard stone floor. My room is cold tile. There is no chance of a tootsie touching that floor.
No. Until I discover the eternal quest, that of the search for the comfortable yet pretty shoe, I will keep wearing my Birkies. I recently purchased my third pair on line; they are black patent and you over there please take you hand off your forehead. It is ok. I am still me. Yet not wearing the cute dresses, any more. You see the only clothes that go with Birkies are long skirts, comfortable tops…. Where is the glamour?
Get me to Top Shop. Quick.