Transitioning from girlhood to womanhood sucks. We sprout hair that makes us itch in embarrassing places. We get our period. We get PMS. We start shaving our legs. We wear an uncomfortable band of straps, elastic and hooks around our chest. Our skin does funny, unfortunate things. Our boobs are either too small or too big. Boys turn weird. And this is not a transitional phase. This is a way of life for the rest of our lives.
There are two consolation prizes for all that torture Mother Nature bestows upon girls. Bubble gum flavored lip gloss and heels. At some point bubble gum flavored lip gloss loses its allure.
But heels? Ohhhhh, not heels. The older you get, the more womanly you get, the stronger the allure of heels. You learn what they can do, how they can give you an assertive edge or turn a man to putty.
When your mother gently takes you aside in the privacy of your bedroom and says, “You’re a woman now” and hands over a box of tampons, pads and Midol there’s an apologetic sigh in her tone. She’s sorry to have to break this news to you, she’s sorry you’re growing up and she’s sorry womanhood doesn’t come easy.
But. When she takes you shoe shopping the sigh is unapologetic. Gleeful. She’s happy to have a partner in shoe-shopping crime, she’s happy that you’re growing up and have feet big enough to wear heels and she’s happy she can introduce you to one aspect of womanhood that doesn’t suck. A consolation prize.
Women often vividly remember their first pair of heels. They speak of them lovingly and in intricate detail. We covet them that much.
There’s significance beyond fashion. No matter what our body type, hair, or facial features the one thing we all share in common with Barbie and each other, the one female experience, is: Heels. Barbie induced or not, heels embody our childhood vision of womanhood.
I had a good, healthy relationship with heels.
Until I fractured my ankle in two places, sprained it two more places, fractured three bones in my foot and tore my peroneal tendon.
Two surgeries, months in various casts and surgical boots, on crutches, canes, a scooter, two sets of custom orthotic inserts and eighteen months of physical therapy later I can finally walk unassisted again. My balance is still off and I live with constant varying levels of pain. Because of the severe nerve damage there’s a high likelihood the balance and pain issues will never completely abate.
So much for heels you say, right? Right.
What does that mean to my gender identity, my womanliness? The one female talisman, the thing about me that screams “woman!” was taken away from me.
Now what sort of woman am I? A woman who wears sensible, practical, comfortable shoes with orthotic inserts.
I hung onto all my heels throughout the ordeal because it never occurred to me I wouldn’t recover and get back in them. I never thought I would be relegated to sensible, orthopedic shoes and sneakers. I thought, “This too shall pass.”
And then one day, after a particularly disappointing appointment at the podiatrist wherein results of my nerve conductivity test were reviewed, the reality of the situation fell on me. Hard.
This is it. This is as good as it’s going to get. Considering the extent of my injuries I’m lucky to walk without a cane. I’m lucky to have an incredibly talented team of doctors, physical therapists and my own ambition throughout all of this. I am lucky and I am grateful. I’m not whining, “Oh poor me.”
But.
For a woman whose biggest gender specific joy was heels, it’s a hard pill to swallow.
I boxed up most of my heels and sent them to a charity shop. The shoes that gave me pleasure, made me feel like I looked like a woman, are hopefully making money for a good cause.
