The Cripple Wants Prada

Watched The Devil Wears Prada last week. A decent movie; with a more focused plot structure than the book and strong performances by… Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I only went to watch the shoes.

Ten weeks ago, I was the goddess of heels. There was no stem too high, no strap too thin, no pattern too gaudy. I wore them all; loved them all. And oh God, I miss them!

I miss wearing two of them at the same time. I miss my sky-high heels; my ankle-strap sandals, my trashy boots, my impossible stilettos, my wedges, my Mary Janes, my leopard print d’Orsays and my silver rhinestone “Carrie Bradshaw had hers stolen on an episode of SATC” Manolo Blahnik knockoffs. I miss being 3-4-5 inches taller and strutting down the street, pretending I’m Gisele and the whole sidewalk is my catwalk, baby. I miss comments from middle-aged ladies at the grocery store asking “How do you walk in those?”, where I’d smile brightly and launch into a three-minute explanation of how to properly distribute your weight over your heel and toe and to make sure that your centre of gravity is over your hips so you don’t fall forward as you step. I miss watching the “this girl is insane” look creep slowly over their faces as they’d try to back away thinking that I was just going to answer their question with something flip like “Practice!”

I started physiotherapy last week, and I’m not afraid to admit that I arrived at my appointment and told my therapist that I’d like to be wearing my very favourite high heels for my office Christmas party in December.  She agreed that it’s a good goal to have, so I’m already feeling better about things.  In the interim, I’m sure she’s more interested in some of the more paltry details like learning to walk again without seeming like an extra in a Romero movie, but as long as we keep the end goal in mind, I’m sure we’ll get along fine.