Tiptoe

The shoes arrived each year in late August. 

They were a stiff, rich red leather; lace-ups with a rigid brown sole.  Out of the box they shone a glossy red that distinguished them somewhat from the brown school shoes worn by boys, though they were a far cry from feminine, shiny black Mary Janes.

The shoe salesman would put them on and lace them up, pressing firmly against the stiff leather to locate my toes underneath, before pronouncing them “just right.” They were new and un-scuffed, and for a brief moment I took pleasure in them; the moment until I was asked to get up and take a walk through the store.

I am, and have been since I took my first wobbly steps at 19 months of age, a congenital toe walker.  Putting my heels to the ground is uncomfortable, and sometimes, particularly first thing in the morning, undoable.  I am happiest up on my toes, and though I make a concerted effort to walk “normally” out in the world, the minute I open the door and walk into my house each afternoon, I let down my guard, and grow an inch or two. 

I was born with Achilles tendons that were too short, and learned to ride a tricycle before I was able to comfortably navigate the world upright.   At the age of three I was taken to see a pediatric orthopedic surgeon, who watched me toe my way up and down a mirrored hallway, and recommended prescription footwear that would force my heels to remain on the ground.  The shoes, special-ordered from New York each year and sent to our local shoe store for fitting, were stiff and unforgiving.   The backs of my legs pulled and ached as if there were thick rubber bands stretched tightly down the back of the calves. At night I would wake up with terrible cramps in my calves, and howl for my parents to come “pull them out.”

Out and about in the neighborhood, where I was allowed the blissful comfort and flexibility of sneakers, I ran, jumped and played happily on my toes.  Like many a first child I was socially naïve, and without the brutal honesty of older siblings to set me straight, I was unaware of how I looked.   Somewhere around the age of five, (aided and abetted by Tiny Tim’s timely hit single, “Tiptoe Through The Tulips,”) I began to understand that I was being teased.  Neighborhood kids began taunting me with the song, sung in falsetto with air ukulele accompaniment.  I was bewildered and surprised, but eventually understood I had little choice but to laugh, and pretend I didn’t care.

For my tenth birthday, I was allowed to give up the red orthopedic shoes in exchange for a promise to do special stretching exercises every night.  The stretches hurt, and as happens with most childhood promises, I soon broke mine.  My parents tired of nagging me, and I was back on my toes again within a short time.

My heels were brought back down to the ground when I was twelve or so by the mid-seventies craze for Earth shoes.  A company called Roots was manufacturing a clunky suede shoe with a “negative heel,” and it had suddenly taken on (like many Seventies fashions) an inexplicable popularity.  One cold February weekend I was firmly escorted by my parents (who were somewhat more embarrassed about my gait than I was) through Harvard Square to the Roots Store to get my first pair.  The whole family left the store sporting Roots shoes, an unusually fashion-forward display of solidarity.

Ah, to be a teenager in Earth Shoes – a girl, at that!  In a brief period of time, the shoes were passé, and I looked nothing short of ridiculous.  I clomped awkwardly through junior high school dressed in boy’s jeans, flannel shirts, my hair cut very short (think Sandy Duncan in Peter Pan), and my Roots.  Occasionally, a group of girls would saunter by in the hallway and ask snidely (and somewhat curiously), “Are you supposed to be a girl, or a boy?”  Surprised by the question, I began to wonder just what I looked like to the rest of the world.  In the afternoons, while my mother taught piano lessons downstairs, I stole into my parents’ bedroom, and explored my mother’s mirrors, and the top drawer of her dresser, with its creams, compacts and lipsticks.  The Roots were eventually pushed to the back of the closet, and I grew out my hair. I became more conscious of my walk, and worked hard to keep my heels on the ground.

At some point in my adult life (I don’t remember exactly when), I discovered the magic of heels.  Once found, I bought and wore them with the surreptitious desire of an addict; pushing aside the knowledge that heels are, like too much alcohol or cigarettes, bad for me.  In heels, I (almost) walk like a normal person.  In heels, I walk in comfort.  The wonderful sensation of the ground under my toes!  With a satisfying click, click, I can be comfortable, and even a touch feminine.  Once the shoes come off I an unable to drop my heels to the floor, but it seems a worthwhile price to pay. 

In flats, by contrast, I feel ungainly, awkward, squat, and genderless.  In flat shoes, I am regularly accosted by colleagues, parents of students, and even slight acquaintances, who look concerned and ask, “Are you hurt?  Is something wrong?  You look like you’re limping.”  Used to variations of this question over the years, I reply breezily and self-deprecatingly,  “Nah, I’m fine – that’s just the way I walk.”  But as I trot unevenly out of view, I make that extra effort to put each heel down first.

Five years ago, as a result of carrying and giving birth to enormous twin girls at an advanced age, I developed a number of serious complications and spent six weeks in the hospital.  During this time my feet rested neglected, in ballet-perfect points, at the foot of the bed.  My resulting “foot drop” was so severe that when I was finally hoisted to my feet, and told to walk, I was completely unable to get either heel on the ground.  I limped around the floor of the hospital ward on my toes, gripping a geriatric walker on wheels while dragging an oxygen tank in my wake.

Time heals most wounds, and as the twins careen towards their fifth birthday, I am healthy and happy.  With the exception of a sensitive stomach and pronounced “muffin top,” I am pretty much recovered from the whole double childbirth experience.  I’m embarrassed to admit that my feet, however, are not.  Each morning I get out of bed and limp around for a good half-hour before I can get my left foot fully on the floor.  I put heels on with a sense of relief each day; relief tinged with the discomfort of one who knows she has developed a bad habit she needs to break, and just can’t bring herself to do it.

That is, until just recently. 

While leafing happily through magazines a few weeks ago, I discovered that Earth Shoes have come back into vogue.  That very same “negative heel” that made them so popular back in the Seventies is back, in a wider range of fashionably more acceptable styles.  Such richness compared to the tan suede, crepe-soled Roots of the Seventies!  There are the “Exer-Fit” sneakers (you’ll burn up to four times the calories while walking! claim the ads), there are clogs: fur lined and bare, and “Exer-Flip” flip-flops for summer wear.  I search eagerly through the choices online, wondering if this new batch of orthopedic footwear holds a pair just for me: one that will, almost 43 years after the first pair, get me back on my feet.

And then I find them.  Shiny, burgundy red leather shoes.