I remember the exact moment my feet first rebelled against high heels. I was 47, far too young to have a mutiny on my feet, but the unexpected, crippling moment happened as I was walking down the aisle to marry James. My shoes were silver, strappy, and sexy, and were perched atop four-inch heels. During the ceremony the pain receded into the background, but as soon as it was over, my feet felt like they’d been stabbed with Ginsu knives.
By the time we got to the reception, I was barefoot, and I stayed that way the rest of the day.