My feet have been hurting. A lot. I’m 43 years old, I’m easily in the best physical shape of my life and I’m pretty sure I’ve got arthritis. What a weird thing to say. And, yet, it is what it is.
This morning, getting packed and dressed to head to the airport I thought long and hard about my shoe choice. With Billy Crystal’s SNL mantra ringing in my ears (“Dahlings, it’s better to look good than to feel good!”) I reviewed my options: dress shoes, flip-flops or running shoes. All three were making the trip but only one would walk me through the airport.
Let’s just say that the decision-making process was neither complicated nor exacerbated. Billy Crystal disappeared as quickly as he arrived and, despite a lifelong dedication (obsession?) with achieving the “right” look I made the only choice that made any sense.
Maturity is an odd thing; freedom and resignation joined in an oddly pitched tug-of-war.
I can no longer do it all.
I don’t care what you think about my shoes.
My feet are happy.
Ça va.
