Once, during my more raucous years, I snapped off a bright red spike from one of my favorite stilettos on a dance floor.
The walk home felt like a carousel ride.
I love high heels. In Europe this summer, I carried a small (new) red pair in the bottom of my North Face. Yeah, ridiculous, I know.
Anyway, when I got home, I decided to clean out my closet. Fresh start for a new semester. I picked through every shirt, shoe and sock. If I had not touched the item in a year, I ignored the screaming packrat inside me, and tossed the dusty rag.
As I filled my fifth trash bag of clothes, I realized that all I had left in the shoe department were high heels and few random oddities.
An army of stilettos stood at attention in my space savers, ready to march all over the measly pile of ‘others’ at the bottom of my closet — cowboy boots, a pair of torn turquoise jellies, pink sneakers, running shoes and Chacos. I’d chopped my shoe count in two and still had a truckload. But come on, I’m female. Shoes are like fingers and toes — if you don’t have 20, something’s wrong.
But what does this say about me? The fact that all I had left for the semester was a rainbow of three and four-inch pumps? Am I that weak every time I pass Shoetopia’s window display?
Actually, I’m a religious sale rack girl. Maybe that’s my downfall.
“OMG! $10.99 for red vinyl stilettos! Hmm ... kind of burgundy. I don’t have that shade.”
No, the issue is more than ankle deep. True, everyone knows heels tighten your gluts, make your legs look longer, define the calves, etc.
But personally, I don’t want to admit to this vanity. So, there has to be a better reason as to why I adore wearing high heels.
Maybe history can tell me.
According to Wikipedia.com, men started the trend in the early 1500s to better fit feet in horse stirrups. Low heels also helped prevent falling backwards during on-foot combat.
Now, I proudly sport my Wal-mart cowboy boots regularly, and yes, the wedged heel hikes me up a notch. But I’ve yet to have a heel come in handy during hand-to-hand combat. So that can’t be why I love heels.
Apparently in 1533 Lady Catherine de’ Medici got tired of this “men only” thing and ordered a pair of heels from a cobbler. Now, thanks to her, women come home from work every day with blisters.
This makes evolutionary sense. If men still wore heels, I’d be holding my date’s thigh instead of his arm as we walk into The Library bar.
So it all began with height. Now this I understand: the glory of those extra three inches. Perhaps I really just want to be taller to reach the top-shelved size fives at Ross.
I do justify my Friday night romps in heels as a medical precaution. Who wants to strain her neck to look up at a handsome new face? (Complete sarcasm ... sort of.)
But neck strain prevention is just an excuse.
Honestly, at five-foot-tall, when I wear flat shoes, I feel like a waddling platypus. I feel sorry for six-foot girls who carry the same burden. Tall girls have every right to stilettos, just as midgets like me do.
But let’s step back here. I’m staring at these canvas boxes hanging in my closet. Whatever the reason for my obsessive collecting — navy, black, cream, berry, silver, gold, strappy, slip-on, vintage, brand new and scuffed — these femme fatale spikes make me feel fabulous.
Just the thought of pointing my toes and sliding my foot right in makes me feel like Cinderella. And every girl deserves that rush.
Let the reason remain a mystery, along with my Prince Charming. I’m gonna keep wearing my heels.
P.S. Anyone seen any glass slippers on sale lately?
— Lindsey Allgood is a professional writing senior.
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JJanowiak 3 years, 8 months ago
Good god, kill me now. This is the end of journalism.