When I was young
and lithe
My body comprised almost entirely
of long skinny legs
flailing clumsily about as I danced
all night

My legs were made longer
and clumsier
by the four inch heels
I wore over cobbles and into clubs
with no thought
for my as yet unspoiled arches and toes

As I grew, I traveled
proudly declaring to the world
“anything I wish to do,
I can do it in heels!”
I walked for mile upon mile
in my cheap stilettos

A self-diagnoses
of true shoe obsession
How many pairs did one need
of fabulous and frivolous towering fashion?
All of them, of course
my smug reply

With new decades
came new buying power
and the shoes were not
so cheap
I gleefully discovered
a higher price tag meant better arch support

Italian leather
hand stitching
platforms and suede
my shoe obsession grew
to new heights
and so did the heels

The shift happened slowly,
almost without recognition
I still walked, and styled
and wore Italian leather
but the heels mysteriously morphed
into shapes shorter and wider

One day, in my closet
I stumbled upon
pair after pair of my favorite six inch stilettos
staring balefully out
from beneath layers of droll
dust bunnies

Where have you been?
they raged
we went everywhere with you
now we are relegated to dusty shelves
and formal dinners
where we only walk from taxi to table

I reminisced in regret
realizing it had been years
since I gleefully sashayed
all over the globe
balanced precariously
on sky-high skinny pins

I glanced down
asking my toes for answers
they winked smugly back
devoid of cramped arches
mysteriously missing any blisters
or scrapes

My curated shoe gallery
had grown
still full of shoe sass and high fashion
but now inclusive of boots made for walking
shapes that could go for miles without chewing
my old feet to pieces

There is a whole cobbled world
of kitten heels and slip ons
wedged boots and stacked block shapes
with hand-stitching
hand-dyeing
and satisfying hardware

Forever my torturous first shoe love
those vertiginous stilettos
but there is no substitute
for the comfort
nay, the coordination
of a fuzzy pair of designer mules

Upon reexamination
the self-diagnosis still stands
the evolution is complete
a life-long shoe obsession
all grown up but still glam
only missing a few inches

How many pairs does one need
of embroidered and sequined
croc-embossed and bejeweled
comfortable mules?
all of them, of course
my smug reply