Kitten Heels

I know it’s going to be a bad day when I turn on the news, wait, what I meant to say is…I know it’s going to be a bad day when I pick up my phone, which has facial recognition, and my own phone does not recognize my face. However, if I’m going to be truthful, lately I’ve been looking in the mirror and don’t even recognize my own face I’m so stressed out.

Speaking of which, anyone who knows me, knows two things about me: everything I feel is always written on my face and just in case it’s not, I can’t seem to stop myself from saying what’s written on my face when in fact it might serve me to stay quiet.

Both those things were in full motion last week when I found myself hanging the galleries once again while cranky as all get go and in full pain from God knows what I had done to my throbbing knee this time around.

While I was crying and complaining to everyone who happened to just say hello while hanging the art, I was trying to figure out where all this pain may have started.

I think it probably started thirty years ago wearing the coolest pointiest pair of kitten heel shoes which I still own, and may I add, in 4 colors. My chiropractor for years begged me to stop with the pointy shoes, apparently to no avail.

As a matter of fact, I brought them to NYC on my last trip. Of course I should have known better. The coolest shade of red and oh so stylish, I had no choice but to wear them when I went downtown to visit my friend. After walking five city blocks, I realized I made a big mistake, my bunion was throbbing, plus, I was soon faced with going down one of those insanely steep escalators that are like five stories high wearing the kitten heels that I was sure would get stuck in the escalator grate and kill me. Amazingly, I made it downtown only to have to ice my feet as soon as I got to my friend’s place.

As good luck would have it, there was a party going on in her lobby, and while the red pointy shoes were a culprit, they most certainly completed my high style bohemian look, so to heck with bunions and foot pain which by now was most likely spreading to every muscle in my body. I was going to a NYC party…and who knows who I might meet in the heart of Fifth Ave. in the Village.

It certainly was an eclectic mix of extremely wealthy older folks and accomplished young professionals, architects, writers, etc. from all walks of life and countries. I was so glad I had left my son’s place that day dressed in my best authentic New York style. I felt confident and unique which was confirmed by all the compliments I got from strangers along the way. That’s one thing I love about New Yorkers…they don’t hold back, plus, they appreciate and know style when they see it. To heck with my enflamed bunions and knees, those red pointy shoes were taking me where I needed to go.

The older woman throwing the goodbye party to the super of 40 years in the building insisted she take me up to her apartment and show me her prized fish tank. Jackpot! I love seeing how people live…especially in NYC. Her sprawling place was a mix of Liberace and the Housewives of New York. She was a gangbuster 89 years old, most likely only 89 pounds, with at least two face lifts in her velvet jumpsuit. Never too skinny or two rich as the saying goes.

When we went back down to the lobby, I soon found myself in conversation with a younger man who said he really doesn’t live in the building anymore, though he still is holding onto his apartment. I begged him if I could rent it out. Coming as no shock to me, this being NYC and all, he said he keeps it for his dog. Since he still works in the neighborhood, he drops his dog there all day while he goes to work. Apparently, NYC has gone to the dogs. I love dogs though I draw the line at them hoarding NYC golden realty.

I drowned my disappointment in a glass of lobby party wine and headed back uptown to my son who was generously cooking dinner for me. Unfortunately, I did not factor in drinking and going down into the NYC transit system. Four stops in I realized I was on the wrong train and if I didn’t jump off at the next stop, I’d end up in God knows which borough I was not equipped to deal with.

I figured I’d dash back out to the street and get my drunken baring’s. Fifth Ave and 59th St. Not too shabby a location, however my stylish look was fading fast like Cinderella at midnight. Those pointy red shoes had their way with every joint in my body by now and there was no way I could manage a 28 block walk uptown. I figured I’d try to manage making my way to 3rd Ave and catch a bus. I stood at the red light and glanced at the stranger next to me. He smiled. I was so caught off guard and a little bit tipsy, so I smiled back. Which I guess was the invitation for him to start a conversation by complimenting my coat. I asked him if he was in fashion, because quite honestly you do have to have an eye to recognize Prada. He asked me if he looked like he was in fashion. And quite honestly, he did not. At all. Which I bluntly told him. He asked if he could take me out, right then and there, which of course I replied no…and while he continued to chat, I told him to give me his name and number so I can make sure he is not a serial killer and I’d think about it, upon which I conveniently ran into Bloomingdales for my escape hatch. Lo and behold there was a train station downstairs, so I jumped on and made it safely back to the Upper East Side to a delicious dinner and the beginning of icing my joints for the next few weeks.

Which brings me back to hanging the galleries last week, crying from knee pain and realizing as the afternoon passed, everyone I cried to, somehow started sharing a pain of their own they were silently harboring. The maintenance woman lifted her pants at the ankle to show me a wrapped leg, an artist who came to see the center told me her list of ailments.

It dawned on me I was not alone. And while it’s been suggested I maybe over share at times, I started to realize, everyone seemed to have their own pain story too. Funny thing is, it seemed in the sharing, it all became a little less painful.

Now, if I could just get the pained look out of my face so my phone would recognize me again… that would be a good start. And yes, stop turning on the news.