Dear High Heels,
They warned me this day would come but I have been in denial.
Wonderful, fashionable denial.
You are too fabulous for a cliche, but truly: “it isn’t you, it’s me.” More specifically, it is him.
We have had a wonderful run-skirts, suits, dresses . . . you can make even jeans and a tee-shirt instantly pretty. You are so much fun in cherry red, black patent, or chocolate brown.
I would love to say that I’ll be back, but alas, I’m not sure it is true. You cannot support an unborn infant so I doubt you will work well while carrying a toddler?
And here I thought we were forever.
I thought your superpowers would support an extra twenty pounds right up front, but the pain and imbalance I endured with you all morning forced me to walk around in nothing but nylon-clad feet all afternoon. What embarrassment!
My co-workers do not understand, for this parting is sweet sorrow, and really it had to come to this for me to bid you farewell.
So to misquote Carrie Bradshaw, “Good-bye Lover.”
See you in five to ten?