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After the podiatrist performed a sonogram, he told me that I had a slight tear in the fascia of my right foot and a barely imperceptible one in my left. He told me to stop walking for exercise. He told me ideally that I should stop walking entirely, but since that wasn't possible, he told me to wear supportive sneakers. Reluctantly, I followed his advice, but my heel pain kept getting worse, especially in the mornings. He then gave me a CAM Walker boot, a strap-on orthopedic device that controls and stabilizes the foot in order to promote healing. The boot lasted a week. It threw off my normal gait and gave me lower back pain, which for a writer is worse than heel pain. On my return appointment, I knew by the look in the podiatrist's eyes that I'd become a Problem Patient. His office walls were filled with glowing autographed testimonials from major ballet stars and sports figures. He'd fixed their valuable feet, but somehow my foot, which didn't need to plié or pirouette or do anything more strenuous than walk at a brisk pace around Central Park, refused to cooperate. He sent me for an MRI of my foot to rule out any fractures. I had none. He said we could try “platelet-rich plasma therapy,” which involved injecting my own blood into my foot, but that sounded too weird, so his last and final suggestion was to buy a pair of MBTs.

MBT stands for Masai Barefoot Technology. The Masai, a seminomadic tribe from East Africa, are famous for their excellent posture, athletic ability, and freedom from joint pain. A Swiss engineer named Karl Müller discovered their secret: walking barefoot on soft sand and grass. MBTs, with their curved “rocker” soles, were designed to mimic that effect. Even though they sounded like a modern variant of Earth shoes, I bought them, wearing them for several weeks without any relief. And then I began to wonder if the Masai didn't complain of joint pain because they had bigger things to complain about, such as lack of food and water. Then I saw pictures of Masai men wearing sandals made of tire rubber, so by that point I was totally confused. Out went the MBTs.

After a year, the pain in my right heel went away—and migrated to my left heel. Discouraged, I dumped all the shoes I'd probably never wear again into a canvas bag and brought them to a consignment shop. I hoped to recoup some of the money I'd foolishly spent on them. The shop, on the second floor, was packed with designer merchandise. We were then in the midst of the financial crisis and women were emptying their closets, which meant the owner could be extremely picky. I lined up behind a woman with a stack of Chanel suits, some still bearing the original price tags. The tyrannical owner stood behind a glass case, where they kept their most precious items, such as Hermès Birkin bags that cost even more than at the Hermès boutique.

After the woman carefully inspected the Chanel items, rejecting one because it had a tiny stain, she turned to my shoes. By then, there was a long line of women behind me.

“Our customers don't like these,” she said, referring to a pair of Roger Vivier buckled pumps. “Our customers like Louboutin, Manolo, and maybe Jimmy Choo.”

“These are iconic shoes,” I said about the pumps. “Catherine Deneuve wore them in Buñuel's
Belle de Jour.
”

“I'm not here to argue with you,” she said, shoving them back at me. “What else do you have?”

I dipped into my canvas bag, pulling out my Carolynes. She looked at them as if inspecting cancer cells under a microscope.

“No, too old,” she said.

“But they're classics.”

“To some people, but not to our customers.”

She agreed to take a pair of Manolo Blahnik python pumps, which I'd bought new at the same consignment shop, along with Manolo flats that I purchased right before I developed my plantar fasciitis. They were pristine. The line of consignees was getting longer, the woman behind the glass case more impatient. Luckily, I'd saved the best for last: two pairs of Louboutin ankle boots, newly polished and soled.

“No,” the woman said.

“
No?
They're Louboutins.”

“But they have black soles,” she said.

“Yes, I just redid them.”

“That was a big mistake. Our customers want the red soles.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you saying that you won't take perfectly good Louboutin boots because the soles aren't red?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying. . . .
Next.
”

The woman behind me offered a piece of advice: “Take them to Leather Spa in midtown. They resole Louboutins with red rubber that's the exact same shade.”

Another woman followed me as I headed downstairs. “What size are the Louboutins?” she whispered. After I told her, she said, “Meet me at the cash machine on the corner of Madison and 79th Street, and we can strike a deal.” I thanked her but said no. I imagined being arrested for selling counterfeit goods because even the New York police probably knew that Louboutins had red soles.

A few weeks later, I ran into Emily on Madison Avenue, not far from where her daughter attends school. I hadn't seen my niece since she was a
Nutcracker
angel, but I kept the conversation upbeat and cordial, following my mother's advice to seek advice about my sore heel. Since she and her daughter were walking home and I was doing an errand not far from where she lived, I said, “I'll walk with you.” It was clear she wasn't thrilled, but not wanting to risk a heel flair-up by running away, she agreed. “Do you have any ideas about what to wear?” I asked. She suggested the Arche shoes, which are made with natural latex that helps with shock absorption. She was wearing a cute pair of Arche ankle boots in teal. While I wear mostly dark colors, she tends to gravitate toward colorful ones.

We continued to walk down Madison, having a perfectly pleasant if slightly strained conversation about our feet, when she suddenly said, “Well, I'm going this way.” She'd obviously had enough “sister time” for one afternoon. “Oh, okay,” I said. “I guess I'll see you, then.”

I decided to walk to the Arche store, where I told the saleswoman my sister had recommended it. “We both have plantar fasciitis,” I said, as if to make up for what we didn't have, which was a relationship. “What does you sister look like?” she asked. I described her as a tall blonde with size 8½ feet.

“I think I remember her,” she said. “Does she have a daughter?”

“Yeah, my niece.”

“Oh, that's nice,” she added. “You must have a lot of fun together.”

“Yes, lots.”

The saleswoman looked at my feet and shook her head. “You're very narrow. Our shoes run wide. But let me see what I have.” She returned with a pair of lace-up boots that looked like something Heidi might wear to herd sheep in the Alps.

“They also come in a pretty shade of teal,” she said.

“No, I can't wear teal. That's my sister's color.”

Since they were the only ones that ran narrow, I bought them—in black. When I called my mother later that night, I told her about running into Emily, even though I knew I was opening up Pandora's box.

“I'm so happy you're finally talking again,” she said.

“I wouldn't say we were exactly talking. She just told me where to get shoes.”

“I think that's very encouraging. Telling someone where to get shoes is like . . .”

“Telling someone where to get shoes.”

“Well, that's something.”

With my heel still inflamed, I made an appointment with a doctor known around town as “the rock star of podiatrists.” Waiting in his office, I sat next to a fashionably dressed woman who was back for a follow-up appointment. She was wearing four-inch heeled sandals. Maybe the doctor was a miracle worker after all. He started off by telling me I needed another sonogram because he didn't trust the other podiatrist's equipment. After I had the sonogram, the doctor gave me the good news. I didn't need physical therapy or a CAM boot or even orthopedic shoes. What I needed were orthotics, and I didn't just need one pair, I needed three—for sneakers, flats, and heels. They were inscribed with his name, so now I had designer orthotics that cost $2,500, which my health insurance actually covered.

Several days later, I received a note from the consignment shop; after three months and several markdowns, nobody had purchased my Blahnik flats. I had two choices: They could donate them to charity, or I could pick them up. Since they were brand-new and perhaps wearable, thanks to my rock star inserts, I went down to the shop and reclaimed them. The soles were all scuffed and the leather wrinkled.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the glass case, “but who's been walking in my shoes?”

“The shoes have been here for three months,” she informed me. “Lots of people have tried them on.”

“Did you let them walk up and down the street? These were brand-new.”

“I'm sorry you're upset that your shoes didn't sell. We have a very discerning clientele. . . .
Next.
”

I wore my rock star inserts everywhere. Since I was now wary of both flats and heels, I settled on a pair of suede loafers with an elevated heel from a company named Thierry Rabotin. They were extremely comfortable and my orthotics fit nicely inside them, and who cared if I saw a ninety-year-old woman in the same ones? My heel still ached, but I figured it would take time.

“Time isn't on your side,” my mother said. “Call your sister. I think she went to a physical therapist. Get the name from her.”

“Mom, I just went to one of the best foot doctors in New York, and he said I didn't need physical therapy.”

“You know what's coming up?
The Nutcracker
.”

“Believe it or not, I don't keep track of time based on
The Nutcracker
.”

“I hope you're going.”

“I'm supposed to invite myself to
The Nutcracker
and just show up?”

“Patricia, I'm old. You don't know how long I have to live. I could go tomorrow.”

“You're going to be around forever, Mom.”