I fell down some stairs on Saturday night. I was sober – just wearing stupid, stupid new high heels and even tonight, my sprained ankle is still making me limp.
Before I went to buy the aforementioned shoes I spent a happy hour or so watching Elodie’s dance class – an event that happens once a year at her school. She’s so graceful. I know I’ve said this before and admittedly this is partly from pride, but mainly I am totally perplexed as to how she could have been born of me. I am clumsy in flat shoes, so I’m not sure what delusion had gripped me as I handed over cold, hard cash for six inch heels.
Except that I do know. “Why shouldn’t I wear heels, when other people can?” I thought with defiance. “I too can be like a gazelle on the plain, dancing to, um, Brown Sugar…” Luckily there weren’t too many witnesses to my graceless tumble because it really hurt, and I may have cried a little.
It’s so much less painful to be yourself. I’ve been thinking about this in relation to the way I’ve shoe-horned myself into uncomfortable roles throughout my life. Being the strong, unbent and untouched mother and wife over the last eight years being one of those. You don’t fool people for very long, and sooner or later you’re going to come a cropper.