PAT MCDERMOTT: putting your best foot forward

Putting your best foot forward can be difficult when your doctor suggests it’s time to buy some sensible shoes.

My granddaughter Audrey and I were curled up together on the sofa watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s – she for the first time, me for the 17th.

“She’s beautiful,” Audrey sighed. “And her name is Audrey!” I said. “She’s so cool. I’m going to wear diamonds and wave a long stick with smoke coming out, too. But not until Year 7 or 8.”

We discussed the merits of diamonds (many) and cigarette holders (none) and how Audrey Hepburn was not only beautiful, she was also tall with big feet.

“She wore flat shoes so she wouldn’t be taller than the boy actors,” I explained.

“That’s silly,” my Audrey replied. “When I’m old like Mummy and you I’m going to wear stilettos everywhere! Boys can stand on their tippy toes to talk to me.”

“Why not?” I thought. It’s every woman’s right to feel fabulous no matter how much it hurts.

I look back fondly on my years teetering about in heels, “speed limping” down dark streets in the rain. I’d join other footsore women jostling for a place to sit at a party or a pub, until feeling gradually returned to our toes and dancing became possible.

The lucky and the blonde found perches beside blokes wearing broad smiles and comfy R.M. Williams boots. The rest of us shifted our weight from foot to foot and searched for a friendly lap to sit on.

Much too much later I’d clatter home, handbag on my shoulder, stilettos dangling from my fingers, feet happy to be free, leaping blobs of footpath goo as the sun crept over the horizon.

But that was then and this is now. My knees have spoken and so has my GP. I need walking shoes.

At the shoe shop a sales clerk appeared from behind a stack of boxes. “Hi, I’m Josh.”

“Hi Josh, I’m Pat.”

“Are you a distance runner or a jogger, Pat?”

“I am neither, Josh.”

“Pilates or aerobics?”

“No, Josh. They sound like Greek train stations to me.”

“What DO you do, Pat?”

“I’m a walker, Josh. I walk to the French pastry shop every morning for coffee and an almond croissant. Then I walk home where I type a lot and talk on the phone. What sort of shoe do you think I need?”

Josh said he had just the thing, so I sat down to wait. Several hundred pairs of sneakers watched me from the racks. They looked hostile.

The last time I remember shopping for sports shoes, Ruff Red was 16. The sales clerk suggested a “performance” shoe, to support and cushion his foot without sacrificing speed or stability.

This is known in the trade as a “gotcha” moment. Pricey sneakers equal gold medals. Cheap sneakers mean by the time your child reaches the finish line, the lights are off and everyone’s gone home.

Ruff Red chose the super sneakers. The fluorescent laces glowed in the dark. The treads made him six centimetres taller. I heard those shoes jogging around his bedroom by themselves while he slept.

“How much?” I asked.

“$167.90.”

“Not too bad,” I thought, knowing how much Ruff Red wanted them. I handed over some crisp notes.

“Will you be wanting one for his right foot as well?” It still makes me smile.

But now Josh is back – and he’s carrying a shoebox, two takeaway coffees and a doughnut to share. I’m feeling fitter already.

“I’m a walker, Josh. I walk to the French pastry shop every morning for coffee and an almond croissant.”