I can’t walk in high heels. No, scratch that – I won’t. Not in the way other women seem to wear them anyway, to work or school or anywhere that requires an average amount of going about your daily life. Like with beer and olives I have a knee-jerk reaction to anything you “just have to get used to”. They’re an acquired taste, heels. You just have to learn to get over the pain and their immobilizing effects, that’s all. Get accustomed to the unbearable, toe-crushing, arch-agonizing, heel-blistering trauma and you’ll be fine! Honestly! The lower back pains will go away once you acclimatize your body to perpetual tip-toeing after all, or at least they will go away once you sit down. You’ll look glamorous and feminine and in-control in all your wincing, stumbling glory!
Of course, this might have something to do with the fact that I was 5’11″ practically from the moment I left the womb. During most of my adolescence I was told that I should never, ever wear heels unless I would want to render myself a man-less, love-less freak for my entire adult life. Who knew my future prospects for romance would depend so much on my choice of footwear? I sure didn’t, the thought had never even crossed my mind, but as every male friend, relative, random family acquaintance and passing stranger would make sure to let me in on this crucial fact I had no choice but to take it to heart. In retrospect I realize that every single one of these men were grouchy, ill-mannered and, most importantly, short, but I was too busy slouching to notice.
And yet I can’t bring myself to wear the damn things, not on a day-to day basis. It is my beer/olive-rebellion. I can walk in heels just fine, more than fine even, but I just don’t see the point of this modern day equivalent to corset training. Where the ladies of yore gasped, fainted and rubbed their bruised ribs whilst their waists were suffocated in the name of beauty, we stomp, waddle, stumble, curse and trip until we finally walk home barefoot on shard-ridden, muck-covered streets because it is more comfortable than wearing our shoes. Some people advice to just keep a pair of heels at the office that you can change into when you get to work in the morning, but this seems like an unnecessary extra step in my daily routine. I’ve got shit to do, tea to drink, gossip to eavesdrop on – there is no space for extra shoe logistics in my mornings.
Tea drinking, eavesdropping badass, via jakandjil.com
There are of course the blessed few who can walk in stilettos like nobody’s business. And really, that is none of my business! I evny these ladies, these natural born glamazons. I salute you. Go on with your bad selves! But for the rest of us, there’s no shame in admitting that we prefer flats. Let us join together and fetishize ballerinas, Converse, brogues, teddy boy creepers and trainers. Yes, even trainers! Tommy Ton said it was okay, trust me! Would I lie to you, my podo-challenged sisters? Let’s not buy wear-once,bleed-through, throw-in-the-back-of-the-closet-and-forget-you-own-them torture devices ever again. Stop the madness! A pair or two tucked away for those special and brave occasions is of course perfectly fine, we all know those days will come after all. But for the other 360 days of the year? I for one will rest easy knowing that I am much more sane, centered and fun to be around in flat shoes. Must be the lack of bleeding.