Manifesto of a Woman at 62
Or as her mother, at 87, calls it: Life Is Not About Bullshit
Boom chick a boom chick a boom
I am not a chick
I am not a babe, a doll, a honey,
a girl.
I do not wear heels
Meaning those 2-6” lifts on the back of shoes that pitch the body forward, causing the wearer to walk on tip-toes, the calves to cramp, bunions. Pain. Imbalance.
In honor of women’s right to be on equal footing and in the name of all the unnamed Chinese women with bound feet, I perform The Ceremony of the Good Will Bag. All heels, regardless of history or cost, are placed into the bag with a prayer of contrition for the unfortunate sisters who may, unfree, unenlightened, uncomfortable, stumble into these, my used heels.
I do not read Glamour, Vogue, or People. Who are these young women with names like Mila and Miley? With half-shaved heads, pierces and tattoos? And stilettos. They have arrived from another place or another planet to take the stage.
As I leave the theatre.
Exit stage right.
Not to die.
Oh no, not I
Not yet, not soon.
But this stage is done.
The page turned. No regrets.
No heels
No tattoos, pierces, black fingernails.
Instead, I go with
Noble scars
Wrinkles
Varicose veins
Experience
Stretch marks
Riches invisible
Softness and toughness
Walking flat footed
Burning bright
Into the forests of the night.
