Never Walked In High Heels

Yesterday I went to what was supposed to be a very special affair. It was for a cause (doesn’t matter which one, I’m sure half the people in the room forgot what it was for eventually).  So I put on my best dress and arrived at a theatre in the West End for photo shoots and champagne flutes, the obligatory escort on my arm. And despite the smiles, the congratulations, the television stars offering gratitude, something just wasn’t how it ought to be. 

Everyone there was miserable. 

It wasn’t your typical ‘oh I’m really unhappy about being in this tux, but I’m doing it for my wife’ sentiment. It was almost like there was nothing to be celebrated at all. Every smile I saw was forced, every introduction I had was blanked out, and every dress I saw suddenly seemed cheap. It reminded me of that part in Atlas Shrugged where Dagny Taggart has her coming out ball. Her mother, having struggled with whether or not to even offer the party, is thrilled to see her rail-working daughter come downstairs looking like a lady. By the end of the night, Dagny is found straddling a fence talking to her friends and acting like the incongruous tomboy she is. She says to her mother “nobody enjoyed it,” remarking how all the guests expected the flowers and ice sculptures to make themselves interesting rather than the other way around. 

I think I know exactly what that feels like. 

For as young as I am, I’ve been to a relatively high amount of formal occasions, particularly here in London (the land of fairy tales and ball gowns). And each time I go, unless I’m with people who I know share the same ideals and ideas as  me - the people who I know value life - I’m miserable, and I can’t find anything to celebrate, no matter how many men in tails carrying champagne bottles I see. Sometimes I think the more we force a “celebration,” the more we cheapen the concept until it doesn’t mean anything. 

I went home upset, wondering why I made the trek so confidently in the first place. I kept expecting my shoe to break to give me some sort of heavy-handed metaphor, but it didn’t. It’s the occupational hazard of being a fashionable writer in a wheelchair I suppose. The clichés are utterly unavailable to you.  This, of course, made me more upset. By the time I unlocked the door to my flat I was glad I was wearing waterproof mascara.  Smelling the roasted tomatoes from the kitchen, I headed upstairs to watch my roommate cook and just be still for a bit. Some friends from Scotland had come down for the weekend and were spread out all over the living room talking. I didn’t bother to change clothes, why should I? I had felt overdressed all night. I simply took off my heels and threw myself down on a couch, my head resting on the lap of one of the guys. 

“You look lovely,” was all he said.