Men, bear with me. For you have your own metaphorical version of this. Perhaps Joey can enlighten us. Or who else wants to?
I was on a trip last week, and I fell in love with four-inch-high shoes. Had to have them. Wanted them desperately. More importantly, I wanted to be the sort of person who could actually wear them and pull it off. Which I’m not.
So I convinced myself in the store that these four-inch shoes would be very comfortable, because they felt pretty good while I sat there on that bench surrounded by $800 to $1200 dresses (i.e. not a price range in which I feel comfortable). They felt good to the touch, buttery leather and fringe and all. Everything felt good about them, except the actual feeling of standing up or walking in them. But does that really matter when everything else is so perfect?
I bought the suckers. I kept them hermetically sealed in a box. I even refused to put them in my suitcase, lest they be lost in transit. I carried them on the plane.
And I put them on my feet for a nifty party the next night. And I ended the night carrying the shoes and walking barefoot across cold gravel, moaning as I fell into the car with crumpled phalanges and indented metatarsals.
Why, at age 51.5 (seven days hence), am I not totally okay with my inability to walk on stilts? Why does hope spring so eternal on this one (“I bet this pair will be unusually comfortable, and I’ll look really sophisticated and not teeter or limp at all”)?
More importantly, what do you have trouble accepting about yourself? What totally unimportant thing do you wish were different? And why? And what would it look like to make peace with these things?
Next time I want to just look at some beautiful, ridiculously inclined shoes, run my fingers across the fringe and leather, feel really happy for the girls who can rock such things, and then walk on down the road in my clogs, with my money still in my wallet, available for something important?
If I could do that, I’d be standing taller than four-inches higher. A lot taller.