Last night was my first gig back after foot surgery—and it was, thankfully, a fairly easy one. I delegated the herding duties to another musician because my Frankenfoot wasn’t quite ready. I wore extremely sensible shoes that were sold as boudoir footwear with ZERO sexy overtones…unless you have a loafer fetish. Their only redeeming quality is they are red suede. Because it was a fancy affair I felt the sneakers were just not going to cut it. Sensible shoes are my permanent state of shod and have been for years. My shoe drama is a uniquely female struggle when putting together a performance outfit. I can’t quite accept that I will never feel elegant, elongated, or enticing again. Thank you, Madison Avenue. One day I’ll bedazzle a pair of sneakers and be done with it.
Going into this foot surgery I had the great fortune/torture to know what to expect. It was about a year and a half of recovery last time with a secondary quickie surgery when the hardware had to be removed. My foot said “no” to the 2" screw—which, by the way, my mother has kept as a memento. It lives on her desk in a spec
