Yes, this one’s about zip lining and heels. Another of the Two (well, more or less) Pages Series.

Two Three Pages

Last autumn I discovered in order to go snorkeling one must first know how to swim.

Which I don’t. (There is a longish story to this which has been written elsewhere. I won’t go into it now.)

At any rate I didn’t go snorkeling last autumn while in Hawaii. Though I did other things, new things; things I hadn’t done before.

Like zip lining, which I instantly proclaimed one of my newest Favorite Things. Plus I was able to check it off my 101 in 1001 Days List. (Always a score.) I swore to return home, find every freaking zip line within a hundred miles radius, and zip line my ass off.

Naturally I haven’t been near a zip line since I unpacked and (forced by an unfair world) reentered Real Life.

 

Today I’m wearing four inch wedge sandals around the house. When asked by my children why (especially considering Witt’s End is designated as a “shoe free zone”,  a surprisingly difficult thing to enforce,)

I told them I’ve decided these “old new” sandals (I bought them on clearance years ago and have never worn them) are my Next Summer’s Sandals and I’m breaking them in now.

(I’m not sure why. It seemed a good idea at the time.)

After wearing them for some hours here are some thoughts on four inch wedge sandals:

-They clomp, causing me to sound like a two legged, rather unsteady horse. (Ok that was redundant – any two legged horse is bound to be unsteady, don’t you think?)

-The rope and bead thing that goes across my foot and holds the damn things on digs unevenly into my skin; leaving a weird, painful pattern.

-They make my toes look fat.
Not surprising as a large percentage of my weight is currently being supported by those toes. The poor things are splayed out, rather like a tapir’s and appear pinker than usual.
And, now that I look, whiter around the edges.
(N.B. Here, if you’re interested, is a picture of a tapir’s foot. I recommend not looking.
Still; curiosity is the spice of life. Or at least one of them.)

-They accentuate the horrible dried out, cracked, and thoroughly disgusting state of my heels.
 A problem I should do something about.

-They reinforce the fact that a pedicure may be in order.

(Note: These last two thoughts can be viewed as positive, assuming I take appropriate action.)

-I’ve discovered my desk chair is much lower when one is four inches taller.

-As is the toilet.

(Both of these posed momentary, potentially painful problems from which, I know you’ll be glad to hear, I quickly regrouped.)

-Finally, my twenty-year old son informed me his calves are better than mine.
 Which, while rather hurtful and a totally weird-ass thing to say is entirely true.

And depressing.

(Once upon a time I had lovely legs. Once upon a time I wore miniskirts with boots and heels. I wore tight A-line skirts with absolutely nothing beneath though they hugged my butt and were made of thin cotton.
I didn’t even need to turn around, checking out how things looked from behind because I already knew.
Things looked just fine.)

But today is not once upon a time.

Today I sit at my desk with slightly numb feet at the end of my too thin calves at the end of my they could use more than a bit of toning thighs.
(Notice I don’t mention my butt? It’s disguised beneath an old pair of flannel shorts and an oversized as long as the shorts T shirt.
Just where it belongs.

Among our zip lining group in Hawaii was a young woman in her twenties with a round face, freckles, and rather bulbous eyes who insisted upon screaming like an idiot throughout each one of her lines.

(Causing the ardent feminist in me to rise up, nostrils flared.
Always an enjoyable experience.)

Each member of the group, as well as the two guides, enjoyed and bonded over hating the idiotic screamer the entire morning. (Not that anyone said anything, not even a glance or an eye roll. Still, we all knew.)

By her fourth line she was holding her phone at arm’s length, filming herself screaming via selfie mode.
I’ve no idea if she used a filter.
(Probably.)

I do know every member of the group was secretly hoping she’d drop the damn phone. Each member imaging his or her own vision of us all peering over the edge, watching gravity flip flop it away with a collective “Ahhhhh!”
But she didn’t.

I feel absolutely certain back when I was twenty-something I wouldn’t have screamed like an idiot while zip lining. I would have let go, leaning back, staring at the sky above, the ground below, the mountains and the sea to either side with equal abandon. Silently. Perhaps with a boooya.
(Though I’ve never been a booyah-er, I’m more of a whoooo-er. I think.)
Just the way I did as a non-twenty-something zip liner.

Because in the most important ways, the years between don’t matter all that much.
Sure the View Ahead doesn’t seem to stretch quite as far, it’s become more limited (and just how badly that pisses me off I can’t even begin to express.)

Yet the booyahing, whooooing, tight skirt wearing, zip lining, aspiring snorkeler remains. A fact proven by a pair of four inch heels, and my admittedly strange desire to wear them though I did nearly break my tailbone on the freaking toilet.

As for the snorkeling?

Well, I can always take swimming lessons.

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