High Heels

I bought high heels to wear to the funeral, much to the dismay of my mother, who detailed to me all the disadvantages: "Your hamstrings will get shorter!" "Your feet will hurt!" "Your toes will get jammed!" It didn't sway me, and for my first pair of heels, I wanted to go all out, so I got ones completely covered in mirrors ad rhinestones. (Thank you, DSW!) I embarked on the day with optimism about the footwear, taking care to stretch my hamstrings in the car and rub my feet when no one was looking.

My grandma was the first to show ambivalence. She was also the first one we saw. "I don't know why women have to teeter around on little points," she told my mom. "It is the form of torture in clothing." Only slightly offended, I looked out the window a little more and tried to forget the comment. We sat through the eulogy, bid farewell to the guests, and rode to the cemetery in a limo, but when we arrived at the burial, I discovered a problem: I could not walk up to the grave to put the ritual few shovelfuls of dirt over Janet because my heels sunk into the fresh earth.

I guess my new shoes are going to get dirty, I thought.