One of the fashion bloggers I like to follow (click here for Susan After 60) has recently admitted she can longer wear her beloved heels and is now sporting fashionable flats on a regular basis. Susan lasted longer than most of us. I clearly remember wearing high heels in my younger days and treating the shoes and my feet like they were invincible. For many years I lived and worked in downtown Toronto and could walk to and from work. I’ve never been a morning person and often ended up running to work so I wouldn’t be late. Sprinting through the downtown streets in gorgeous heels it never once occurred to me that one day my graceful high arches would rebel.
Over the years I started paying more attention to comfort although I never did stoop to wearing running shoes back and forth from the office. The lower right drawer of my desk was filled with all my gorgeous fashion shoes that I switched into as soon as I sat down and removed my comfie walking shoes. Nothing is more empowering than strutting around the office in sexy heels. Inevitably, as my chronological age went up, the heels went down. By the time I retired, I could barely get through the office Christmas party in heels.
Then it happened—plantar fasciitis. It’s an inflammation of the elastic ligament that runs between the ball of the foot and heel. You’ll know you have it as soon as you put your foot on the floor when you get out of bed in the morning. Putting your foot down and walking will generate excruciating pain in the bottom of your heel. You can somewhat work it out as the day goes on, but it comes roaring back and can last years.
The first time I experienced plantar fasciitis, I cured it with hip replacements. Being off my feet for awhile after the surgery allowed the inflamed plantar fascia to calm down and heal. I was mercifully pain-free until about three months ago. Then, one morning it returned in my right foot with a vengeance. Turning to Google, I tried every home remedy recommended including ice, massage, reflexology, rolling a golf ball and tennis ball under my foot, stretching exercises and nothing worked. Since another hip replacement seemed a bit over-the-top, I visited a foot doctor who gave me a shot of cortisone in the bottom of my heel to reduce inflammation. It has mitigated the pain somewhat but I’m not out of the woods yet.
My future now consists of footwear with industrial strength arch supports and lots of cushioning and support. I’ve always had good luck with FitFlops™ (click here for link, and they’re on sale), a branded sandal designed by a British foot doctor, but I may have to opt for something even more structured. We blithely take our various body parts for granted when they’re working as they should but as soon as something like our backs, feet or knees crap out, we gain an immeasurable respect and appreciation for our parts when they’re healthy and functioning. I’ve been unable to walk the dog or even myself for a few months and I can’t wait to get back to normal. I’ll thank our spirit sisters every day when I’m fully mobile again.
I refuse to say goodbye to my tough-looking biker boots just yet though. With a closet full of lovely shoes I’m heavily invested in healing. Women who love shoes will understand when I tell them about the ritual performed when I bring new shoes home. I place them, like a work of art on the diningroom table to admire, fresh out of the box. Then, at bedtime, I move them to my night table where they’ll be the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning. Perhaps it’s a throwback to growing up in the more austere fifties and sixties when we were lucky to get a new pair of shoes every couple of years. Boomer sisters will understand the magic powers of gorgeous shoes. They elevate not only our legs but our very souls. From fuscia pink suede platforms I purchased in London, England in the swinging sixties to mustard yellow suede platforms worn in my tottering sixties . . . and all the years in between, shoes have been part of beautiful memories.
When I see retail sales assistants prancing around in gorgeous four-inch python-printed strappy heels, I react like a grouchy old lady (which if you regularly read my blogs, you’ll understand). “Enjoy them while you can” I say. “Someday you’ll be wearing Mephistos and Birkenstocks like me.” But I promise they’ll be python printed or bright red patent leather. And you’ll never see me wearing them with socks. That would just be too embarrassing. At least not until I’m in ‘the home’ and by then I’ll be too stoned on medical marijuana-infused gummy bears and too blissfully unaware of my feet to care.
Footnote: I receive no financial or other benefit from mentioning FitFlops™, Hudson’s Bay or Ron White Shoes in this post.
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