Eighth in the series of letters to my hometown
As I watched my sons graduate from college this weekend, I found myself thinking about another graduation many years ago on the football field at West Plains High School.
Back then, our graduation stage was a flatbed trailer parked on the field. Folding chairs were lined up on the track, our parents watched from the stands, and the Missouri humidity had already settled in for the evening. Every girl in the Class of 1987 was trying to survive both the emotions of graduation and the realities of hairspray in June.
I had the opportunity to be one of the student speakers that night, which meant I was absolutely terrified.
Oddly enough, my biggest concern was not forgetting my speech. It was my shoes.
I had chosen the perfect pair of Dyeable pumps with six-inch stiletto heels to match my lace-accented Gunne Sax graduation dress hidden beneath the red regalia of the Zizzers Class of 1987. In my mind, the outfit mattered, but the shoes mattered more. Back then, the shoe was never just an accessory. The shoe made the outfit.
As I waited for my turn at the podium, I remember silently worrying that one of those heels would get caught in the metal steps leading up to the stage. I imagined myself tumbling in front of the entire town of West Plains in a spectacular display of teenage humiliation.
Thankfully, I made it up the steps without incident. No twisted ankle. No public wipeout. No embarrassing story retold at reunions for decades afterward.
Gen X women came of age during the era of shoe commitment. We wore heels to football games, church, weddings, office jobs, and outdoor events where no reasonable shoe belonged. We walked across gravel parking lots in stilettos like baby deer learning to stand. Entire evenings were spent pretending our feet weren’t throbbing. At the end of proms, receptions, and company Christmas parties, women hobbled barefoot through parking lots carrying their heels in one hand and dignity in the other.
And honestly, for most of my life, I subscribed fully to that philosophy.
In the early years of my career, I loved black patent leather heels with pointed toes. Six inches if possible. I always kept at least two pairs in the closet like some sort of emergency footwear reserve. I also loved a good two-toned pump or an open peek-a-boo heel with a bow. On the rare occasions I decided to “go practical,” I simply downgraded to a three-inch mule.
I was never a big designer label person. I couldn’t afford Prada or Chanel, but I loved a good Bandolino pump in the 1990s. Beauty was pain and apparently our entire generation simply agreed to accept that arrangement.
But somewhere along the way, comfort stopped feeling like surrender and started feeling like wisdom.
This past weekend required a lot of driving, standing, and walking between graduations at Liberty University in Lynchburg, Virginia, for one, and Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia, for the youngest. Planning my outfit now involves entirely different considerations than it did in 1987.
These days, I still want style. I also just want circulation in my toes.
I found myself wandering through stores looking less for fashion brands and more for reputable comfort. Instead of hunting for trendy pumps, I was considering brands like Clarks and wedges with actual arch support. Somewhere north of fifty, shoe shopping becomes less about impressing people and more about whether you can survive the walk back to the car.
Still, don’t assume I have completely surrendered.
I still have a pair of blue suede six-inch heels sitting in my closet with giant red lips on the back where a bow should be. I haven’t worn them in years, but I cannot bring myself to donate them. My feet may say no, but my Gen X heart still remembers the thrill of the perfect shoe.
And no offense to anyone, but there are still limits to what I will wear.
I’m looking directly at you, Crocs.
Laura (Wright) Jones is a former West Plains resident and a writer now living in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley with her husband Jeff and their two Morkies Jonesy and Mookie. Her column, “Dear West Plains,” is a love letter to her hometown and the stories that shaped her. Her email address is laura.jones062869@gmail.com.
