When I first married Jack, I was well aware of our height discrepancies. He was 6 feet 4 inches tall and in shoes, probably a little more. At the time, I was five feet 8 inches if I stretched.
So, at 29 years old, I bought my first pair of spikey leather boots. I had never worn heels, and the first day I wore them, I learned all about real pain!
The heel was 4 – 6 inches high. At first, I did well. We drove from New Hampshire to JFK, where Jack was based. I did not have to stand or walk.
This was before 9/11. On this day in 1988, Jack and I walked from the crew parking area into the Pilot’s Lounge. The lounge was on the lower level, where the suitcases went out to the planes and then went back in.
After showing me the Pilot’s Lounge, he showed me the airport’s underfloor before returning to the gate for our flight. For those who have never seen this, it was fascinating. But done in high heels, it was a challenge.
He showed me some back stairs into the terminal and escorted me to the gate. Then, he went off to do some pilot work.
I walked down the ramp and onto the plane, sticking my head into the cockpit to say hello!
Well, we flew to Atlanta, coming in at Gate A20. Before we took off on the next leg, we walked to the other end of the airport to a restaurant Jack liked for lunch. Then, by golly, we walked back to the plane.
It was then that I became aware that my feet, both of them, were on fire! On the plane, I removed the boots and let the cool air soothe them.
This went on all day, with the new bride me not saying a word but struggling to make it through.
Late in the evening, we returned to JFK, and after Jack finished his pilot work, we walked back to the car. It was cold and icy, and I told Jack I needed to stop.
I leaned against a car and removed those boots. I could feel my nylons tear, but I did not care.
When we got home, I wore soft cotton socks and vowed never to wear high heels again, especially those darn boots!
The boots went to Amanda. I wonder if they worked for her?
