Standing In Pink Heels

Today I went to the shoe store looking for a pair of neutral flats and walked out with pink high heels.

Here is what you need to know about me: I’m spiraling. Have you ever been on a walk in late summer and suddenly found yourself submerged in a swarm of manic gnats flying in gyres? That is what is happening at all moments of the day and night in my body. An unorganized swarm. Basically, I’m an audience of one at an atonal opera. Have you ever been to an atonal opera? You think it’s a cool, artsy thing to do until you realize you have an hour and a half left of listening to what sounds like a VHS tape played backwards.

What does this have to do with shoes? I went shopping for a reliable pair of flats to wear at work, because I go back to my office full-time on Monday after 18 months of working from home. I knew what I wanted: a caramel-colored mule, maybe with a little gold detail or some pretty piping around the edges. Versatile, comfortable, stylish. The potato of the footwear world, if you will. 

I was Jonah in that store. 

Its mouth opened to my misery; I wandered. Up and down the rib bone aisles looking for what I wanted. What did I want?

* * * *

This week, something I worked hard for and wanted a great deal was not given to me. I’ve been a carousel, spinning with my pretty horses and lights on, watching everyone ride and smile. My music has been happy because generally I’ve been happy. But I’m getting old and the rotations are getting slow. The music stopped and no one knows how to fix it, so I mostly just hum to myself at a volume others can’t hear. Circles are ok, but I’ve been restless for a straight line.

So, after desperate prayer, searching, bravery, I put myself out for an opportunity. I felt peace. It felt good. I kept company with hope and also with apathy, because they are both solid companions for people who are waiting and surprisingly skilled at small talk. 

And finally, what I guess I knew, as deep down as a radish, the answer: no. Turmeric could not have flared me more. 

A day past the breaking news and I’m absorbing it. It’s what I do. In the oil and water of my life, I’ve always been the emulsifier. I bring things together. Red Sea water, the anointing oil of God, and me. 

Me, standing here with Barbie-pink, pointed-toe, block heels to wear to a job I was actually hoping to leave.

* * * *

I went to the store because I didn’t get what I wanted and I was hopeful that, if I had to walk a road I didn’t want to be on, at least I’d have the footwear I chose myself. To be fair, I do need a new pair of wear-with-anything flats for work because during the pandemic, I threw out most of my career-appropriate shoes. This was not exactly a trip conceptualized as retail therapy, though I am not above that. This was just another demonstration of how tired my mind is, how distracting everything feels. How, adoring the lipstick rose jubilee on my feet in the mirror, I only barely stopped to question what I would drape on my body as complement?

My life was nudging toward pink and, after the rejection, I’m not sure what to do with the color. Is it too shocking to say that I feel like a woman standing naked in neon heels so tired and confused she can’t figure out what to dress herself in? I can’t have what I want and what I have isn’t what I thought. Do I take the shoes back? Why do the shoes suddenly feel like all I’ve got?

* * * *

I’m ending today on my little porch balcony, writing this. It is August on the east coast, so the world is warm and still. I hear crickets, cicadas, tree frogs. An HVAC droning. Occasional cars pass, sounding like a giant scissors passing through the paper of the world. I focus on the gnats in an attempt to get the swarm to cease. I think about what I want, which means, what kind of woman I want to be. I want to wake up and not feel the paw of anxiety on my chest. I want to wear less makeup and turn heads because I’m prettier that way. I want to write every single day and be a mouthpiece the spirit of God has on speed dial. I want to be a person who laughs. I want to show up at a job that feels like a room in the building of my life. I don’t want to be afraid of the life I am building. 

Could the shoes of peace be pink? I bet they could.