Heels

I wore heels this morning.

In November of 2000, I hurt my back, in December, I found out that it was much worse than my doctor had anticipated; I had two herniated discs. In June, my neck freaked. So it had been almost a year since I wore heels. As a person who used to wear extremely high heels daily, this was quite a major change in my life. I bought four pairs of flats, two summer ones and two winter ones, and alternated between the four.

On September 17, when the employees returned back to work, my firm held a department-wide meeting and advised the women to wear flat shoes for the next few weeks. You’d be amazed at how many women were wearing heels the very next day. But not me, flats had become my new friend.

This morning, I got dressed and fetched around for a pair of shoes that would go well with my outfit. My eyes kept drifting at the heeled brown boots. I picked up the shoes and looked at the size of the heels. Pretty high. I put them on. In the last few months, I lost a lot of weight and the heels helped accentuate my body, so I decided what the hell. I knew one day wouldn’t break my already broken back any further. If it helped me feel good about myself, I would wear heels for one day.

I had a few sciatica pains early on in the day, but overall the heels were fine. By the end of the day, I even ran from one building to another so my manager could have the letterhead he needed. I felt good about wearing the heels.

Around 7pm, I walked into the subway and took a seat. Since I take the station down by Wall Street, the train was packed at that time of the night. On Tuesday, I learned how to knit, so I took out my scarf and started knitting. We passed through the Wall Street and Fulton Street stops without a problem. Halfway between Fulton and Brooklyn Bridge, the train halted. The conductor said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have been told to stop immediately. I will pass along more information as soon as I have some.”

The woman to my left held out her hand to show to her friend how it was shaking. The two of them were looking through wedding dress pictures. The guy to my right kept reading his newspaper and me, my knitting. After ten extremely long minutes, the conductor comes back on the speakerphone and says, “There is a serious situation in Astor place and we have been told to move back to Brooklyn Bridge. This train is called back to Brooklyn Bridge.” The conductor repeated this four times, by the second one, people in my car were muttering him to move it already.

We sat there for another fifteen minutes and saw the train’s operator walk from one end of the train to another. The conductor kept repeating the same announcement, but the train would not move. I don’t even want to share with you the thoughts that raced through my mind at those moments. I only stared at my red scarf and mechanically knit. Another ten minutes later, the conductor came back on the speakerphone and announced that the police had cleared Astor place and we were going to move forward after all. We waited another ten minutes as the operator moved back to the front of the train. As he passed through our car, the New Yorkers cheered. Some girl said, “Hurry, some of us have to go to the bathroom.” People laughed. That thank-God-nothing’s-wrong sort of uncomfortable laugh. The operator walked back to the front and the conductor said, “All right, partner, let’s get this thing moving.” Everyone broke into applause.

The train pulled into the 14th street station and I got off to switch to the local line. As I walked down the street towards my house, I decided I’m not taking the subway again. Not for some time. Nothing can compare to feeling trapped several feet underground.

And tomorrow, I’m wearing flat shoes.

Previously? Imitation.