I Feel Like a Heel

Today's subject is: high heels. My objection to high heels dates back to my formative years, back when Tess and I played Barbies in our yellow house on 4th street. When you look at Barbie's feet and then you look at your own, well, even a 5-year old can put two and two together. Not knowing which came first - did the little pink pump fit the foot or did the foot fit the little pink pump? - I wondered if my feet were gonna do that. All I knew was, my feet were flat. And I wanted to keep them that way. The thought of walking around on my toes all day because it made for a "longer leg" and "straighter lines" and "looked better with a skirt than combat boots" was not enough to sway me. GI Joe had flat feet. He had combat boots. And a kung fu grip. Not surprisingly, I was not afraid to hold my hand like Joe for hours under my pillow while sleeping in hopes I, too, would someday develop such a power. It really just lead to metatisis nervosis, which my doctor says is common in girls who don't wear heels. Apparently, if the pain can't shoot through your calves, it has to go somewhere else. The last time I wore heels was probably a wedding. Maybe Wes and Emilie's, I think they were the last to have faith in my uncanny ability to pull off a pink gown and died-to-match heel. Those same heels served me well in two earlier weddings; I'm probably one of the few who can take a shoe from forest green to black to pink, but I also think bridesmaid dresses are distracting enough so no one really remembers the shoes. I never forget the shoes. Mostly because those walks down various aisles were some of the longest of my life. I think they do that on purpose. Put people like me in toe-pinchy shoes like that to slow us down. If they let me wear my sneaks I'd be up to my groomsman lickity-split, snatch him by the arm and whip him over to his spot in line. No one would have a chance to cry about my hair or say how pretty I look in taffita. I once went to a wedding where the bride wore her softball cleats. Of course, the other bride wore Converse. It was a perfect match.

Heels just don't work for me. There was a brief time when I was just out of college, and the occasional sorority function when I was in college, where heels were somewhat of a staple in my wardrobe. Mostly a low heel, of course, because A.) I wobble and B.) I'm afraid of heights. For some reason, elevate my heel more than an inch off the ground and I walk like someone just dropped me in the center of an ice rink. My arms shoot outward and I flex my knees; I imagine working my way closer to the boards. I literally panic. I want to kung fu grip the nearest elbow. Consequently, I'm fairly certain there's nothing "more stylish" about jamming me into a pair of heels, but my mom and sister, God bless them, tried for a long time. Confirmation, prom, graduation, interviews, weddings, baby showers, church, Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas... despite all my protests, there were many occasions when I just had to do it. I'm the kind of girl who wore her softball pants under her long black band skirt, but for my mom, I switched to the cleats AFTER the concert. I really tried to wear heels when it mattered most and to walk in them with an air of confidence despite my inner turmoil. I remember when I got my first real job, I could make it from the front door to my car and from my car to the office and then back with some modicum of pride. Never mind I removed right shoe to drive. It's been several years now since my last donning of the heels. I just haven't had cause to wear them and truthfully, I'm not sure I still own a pair that would pass inspection. Or allow me to move much beyond the closet. Unfortunately, wearing heels is nothing like riding a bike. First of all, they don't give you training heels (smaller heels that extend out from the sides for balance). You don't get a helmet. And if you fall, no one rushes to help you up, dust you off and get you right back out there. You just get a lot of dead stares over the rims of martini glasses. Finally, when you stop wearing heels, whatever you once knew about walking in them is gone. You are back to square one... wobbling along without a parachute until somebody throws you an elbow.