Summer Satan Sandals

NYC has been HOT this week. Signs of summer, temps close to 90. I don’t mind the heat. It makes my joints feel better, and I’m less crabby.

But then there’s the question of WTF do I wear? Three days ago I was wearing wool and a scarf around my neck. Now I’m thinking, is it too early for this sundress?

With the weather as inspiration, I went searching online for a new pair of sandals. There are so many cute strappy numbers that would look so great with my summer gear. But the second I considered hitting buy on that pair of K. Jacques, my feet chimed in: not today, satan sandals. Not today.

Since I moved to New York in my early 20’s, my standard for buying shoes has always been: “Can I walk 30 blocks in these?” (Sorry, Manolo Blahnik, I’m no Carrie Bradshaw.) And now there’s this pain in my toe that randomly comes and goes, so no, the strappy cuties are not happening. But I want them. Partly because, despite living the pants-with-a-zipper-is-dressed-up life, I still love fashion. I still want to look cute. And the older I get, the more I fear looking like a capri-pants-wearing, mall-walking granny.

My feet say give me the Danskos, baby. My cool, fashion-loving soul says those Reformation slides would look so great with my new linen pants. Sigh.

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Midlife snuck up on me. Not the years, but the vibe. I don’t feel the same as I did at 25. I have seen and endured too many things that I’m genuinely proud of to diminish my earned wisdom by pretending I still feel young. But at the same time, I don’t feel done.

There is a lot of talk amongst middle-aged women about feeling invisible. To that I say: put on some neon and start banging on pots, ladies. But also, shit. You kind of have a point. Maybe it’s not invisibility so much as disorientation. Like society doesn’t really know what to do with me. With us. Our culture doesn’t know what to do with a cool, smart, pissed-off, slightly arthritic middle-aged ass kicker.

So I guess I’ll just have to walk this stretch as a pioneer, guided by what I do know: I am a full human with so much more in me. More to say. More to contribute. More cool kid days ahead. More fucks to give. I still want to look cute in my summer outfit. I just also want my feet not to hurt — without having to surrender to orthopedic footwear.

This disorientation is a compelling reason to get in the gym and train hard. It’s as good a place as any for cool, smart, pissed-off, slightly arthritic middle-aged ass kickers to dominate. To find definition. (Yeah. I said it.)

The disproportionate ratio of men to women in the weight room means we get to define its purpose and meaning. We are founding mothers in this strength revolution — in our wide-toe box trainers and ass-covering tanks. LFG.

Shoe shopping will always be a challenge. But with a barbell in my hands, I am always visible to the person who matters most.

Have a great weekend.

In Strength, Elizabeth