Farewell Youth Chronicles of a Stiletto

The Return

Invasion of the Slip-Ons

Recently, I heard the word slip-ons.
Thought it was a fungus. Or maybe a new supplement for joints.
Googled it. Turns out, it’s footwear.
No laces. No challenge. No memory.

When Shoes Had Sharp Opinions

Back in my youth, shoes had character.
Stiletto. Thin as an argument. Tall as ambition.

Winter? The real kind. When breath turned to glass. When cheeks burned and mascara froze mid-blink. Salt in your boots. Frost on your lashes. And a question in the air: what does -45 even smell like? Challenge in your eyes.
And when you walked, you didn’t just walk — you made a statement.

Pavement cracked under you with the subtle crunch of fate. Knees — bruised but proud.
Dignity intact, even when balance wasn’t. Stilettos? Present. Sanity? Debatable.

Every pharmacy, every kiosk — a mini-theatre. You — the lead role.
With plot twists. With entrance music. With perfume that bit back.

The Lada Chapter

And then there were them.
Guys in Ladas. Yelling out:

“Hey, pretty lady! Need a ride?”

Car door half-frozen, a dangling pine tree air freshener.
And you — alone. Proud.
And in your head, only one thought:

“Idiot. Should’ve worn my ‘Farewell, Youth’ boots to the pharmacy…”

That’s what we called them.
Felt boots with a rubber sole.
No logo. Just truth.
And the quiet understanding: yep, youth’s packed its bags. Only the sole remains.

Babushka Chic

Now I sit — look like a babushka. Passport says rock’n’roll.

On my feet — not slip-ons.
But legend.
Farewell, Youth. Shoes not for survival — but for dancing through it.

And now I’m holding slip-ons in my hands. Soft. Quiet.
Like they’re apologizing for the fact that effort is no longer required.
Opened a stylist’s guide. Slammed it shut.
Looked in the mirror. Blinked. Remembered.

Cloud in Lipstick

And you know what?

There’s not a single gray hair in my soul.
I walk. Not a woman — a comet. In a skirt. With the keys to hell.

A stiletto in a snowbank. A glance like a trigger.
And if someone says:

“Need a lift?”

I’ll say:

I already brought myself here. To this age. On my own. In heels. No seatbelt.

Maybe with a limp. Maybe with a laugh. Maybe with a scar just under the tights.
But I’m here.

Postscript

Didn’t throw out the stilettos. Let them stand.
As proof that once, I knew how to suffer beautifully.

And apparently — I still do.

This Is Me

Yes. That’s me. That very day. That very winter. That very woman. Real. Icy. Alive.