Sneakers & Stilettos… I Can Live Later

“I can live later.”

I never said it quite that way. I dressed it up in more responsible language.

After I get settled.

After I find the right job.

After this surgery.

After I save more money.

After things calm down.

Then I’ll take the trip. Wear the dress. Go to dinner. Let somebody get close to me. Maybe even relax without mentally reviewing every decision I’ve made since 2009.

Apparently, my life has been waiting for approval from a committee. And every member of that committee is me, tired, with a different concern.

One says we need more money.

One says we need more time.

One says our ankle hurts.

And one, for reasons nobody understands, thinks everything will magically improve if we reorganize the closet.

I’ve spent years being good at getting through things.

Getting through pain. Getting through change. Getting through another day when my body has complaints and my bills have absolutely no sympathy.

There’s always something to handle. An email to answer. A job to do. A problem to solve. And I know how to do all of that. Give me a difficult situation and I’ll figure something out.

Give me a completely free afternoon, and suddenly I need instructions.

Should I be doing something productive? Is there something I forgot? Can I really just sit here?

Even my relaxation comes with a performance review.

Somewhere along the way, I started treating enjoyment like something I had to earn. If I worked hard enough, got organized enough, healed enough, then I could have a little fun.

But the finish line keeps moving.

I solve one problem, and another arrives wearing business casual and asking if I have a minute.

Meanwhile, the dress is still hanging in the closet.

You know the one. The dress for somewhere special. The shoes for the right occasion. The version of yourself you keep promising to bring out when life gets better.

At this point, some of my outfits have waited more patiently for me than any man ever has.

And honestly? They deserve dinner.

Turning forty has made me think about how often I’ve postponed things without choosing an actual date. “Later” sounded sensible when I said it. It gave me room to breathe when I was overwhelmed.

Sometimes I needed that room. Sometimes getting through the day really was all I could manage.

But I’ve also said “later” when I was scared.

Scared to spend the money. Scared to go alone. Scared to get excited and be disappointed. Scared to want something badly enough that losing it would hurt.

Being busy gives me a convenient way out. I can tell myself I’m focused, disciplined, responsible—and I am. But occasionally, I’m also hiding behind a very impressive to-do list.

That’s a harder thing to admit.

Especially when you’re used to being the woman who handles it.

Most days, I’m in sneakers. No makeup, hair pulled back, doing what needs to be done. A Romanian country girl in a fancy city, carrying her dreams, her responsibilities, and an ankle that has never once agreed to cooperate quietly.

I love that woman. She has worked hard for me.

I also miss the woman who gets dressed just because she feels like it. Who stays at dinner a little longer. Who laughs without checking the time. Who has something to talk about besides work and whatever she’s currently trying to fix.

She doesn’t need a perfect life to come out.

She might need comfortable parking, though. Let’s be realistic.

Living with pain makes spontaneity more complicated. I have to consider how far I’ll walk, where I can sit, and what tomorrow might feel like if I overdo it tonight. A simple outing can require more planning than people realize.

So when I say I want to live more, I’m not suddenly pretending those limits have disappeared.

I’m asking myself what I can enjoy within the life I actually have.

Maybe it’s dinner close to home. Maybe it’s a drive by the ocean, coffee with someone whose company feels easy, or wearing the outfit without saving it for a hypothetical invitation.

Maybe it’s letting a good afternoon stay good instead of filling it with chores because I feel guilty.

I don’t need every experience to be big enough for an Instagram post. Some days, I just want to look back and remember something besides being tired.

And I want to stop assuming that a future version of me will have unlimited energy, perfect confidence, and a completely empty calendar.

Who is this woman? Where does she live? And why hasn’t she offered to help?

The real me is here now. She has responsibilities. She has pain. She has dogs to come home to and things she’s still figuring out. She can be grateful and frustrated in the same afternoon. She can want more without knowing exactly how to get there yet.

She deserves a few good memories while she works on it.

I’ll still put on my sneakers tomorrow. There’s work to do, and I care about the life I’m building.

But I’m taking the dress out of the closet.

I’ll make a plan with an actual date. I’ll leave a few things unfinished long enough to enjoy dinner. And if the stilettos only last twenty minutes, the sneakers can come with me.

I’ve carried bigger things than a spare pair of shoes.

“I can live later” has gotten me through some difficult seasons.

Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about how nice it would be to have something to look forward to this weekend.