We wave good-bye to our friends after a weekend visit with them at 'The Lodge' (see The Lodge July 2010). Their nine-year old daughter comes out the house to wave good-bye. I notice she's wearing the silver high-heeled shoes she bought herself as a treat. "Nice shoes, Jesse," I yell as we drive away."Stop" I yell again, this time to M. The good husband that he is he slams on anchors, as my father would say. "Back up," I direct. "I want to take a picture of Jesse's shoes." The very good husband that he is, he does and I jump out of the car with my camera.
With a broad and delighted smile, Jesse is happy to pose in her new heels. She is quite the lady in her red sundress festooned with white frangipanis. I remember the days I would clomp around in my mother's red shoes pretending I was a little lady. Pictures taken, Jesse walks up and down the path taking in her image reflected in the dining room window. I remember those days too, although M would say I haven't left them behind.
The high heels, though, I have left behind me. Long gone are the days I would force my feet to wear narrow heels. Somewhere, in growing up, we transition from glamorous to comfort that still looks good.
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