Wednesday, January 14, 2009

High Heels

When I was in 1st grade, I loved to put on my mom's mittens and pretend they were my high heels. The mittens were an orangy-brown with the texture of Fozzy Bear (at least that's what I always thought of when I was wearing them). I'd put them on so that the thumb would be underneath my foot and then walk around on the balls of my feet, so that the thumb could hang down and, well, be a high heel.

I did a brief heel-wearing stint as a teenager. But only to church. And quite, honestly, the heels were a respectable height. I didn't need my pilots license to wear them, I didn't need to watch out for any low hanging objects that I might collide into. They were quite perfect, as far as heels go.

Then one day I decided that flats were where it was at. I mean, I could walk fast, as I'm wont to do, I could even run if I had to, not something I'm wont to do, but necessary on occasion, and I didn't have an aching back or knees or feet by the end of the day. Since that time no matter what the current trend, I've been a flats kind of gal. Until yesterday.

That is when I gave in to fashion pressure and bought a pair of heels. Sturdy heels, but heels, none the less. The kind where I just might have to look out for low hanging objects and overhangs. The kind where the balls of my feet hurt and my knees ache after a mere five minutes.

The worst part is, I have to walk like a girl! No long strides, big strides, comfy strides for me in those shoes. Just delicate little steps where I'm wondering what kind of fool I must look like as I gingerly step around.

Some girls may love to have contorted feet. They may feel sexy. Feel taller. Feel out of this world. But I don't.

Yes, I will wear the new heels. An outfit I have is screaming to be seen with them. But, as Shari says, I won't like it.