Woman, Do Not Heel Thyself

While the rest of my physique is mediocre by the laxest standards, I started adulthood with an exemplary foot. My toes tapered evenly, and my high arch was ballerina-worthy. I even copped a job as a foot model for an exercise sandal. Yes, I am bragging. By sixty, those feet had gnarled up like gingerroot. I don’t grieve my less than pert tatas. When my ass lies down on the back of my leg, I think, Oh, rest, you poor thing. Given new bra technology and some spandex, I can squish stuff in and—spray a little PAM on me—still slither into a size 4. But standing for an hour in heels sets red lightning bolts blazing off my feet.

From "High Maintenance" by Mary Karr for The New Yorker; Photo by Peter Lippman

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