Dear High
Heels,
It’s time
to reexamine our relationship. It’s not you, it’s me. Well, really, it’s both
of us, and it’s time for this to end.
I remember
the first time I saw you, swinging from my mother’s foot as a baby, all shiny
and silver and mesmerizing. The hypnotic curve of your heel, the exotic skin,
the way you caused my mother to walk just so: I knew right then we would be
destined for a lifelong relationship.
There are
photos of me in mom’s bra, a diaper and sunglasses with you on my feet. I was
holding a baby blanket, clearly believing I was properly dressed to leave the
house. Oh, and a purse. And a smile. Yep, I was ready to take on the world.
When I was
allowed to explore the depths of our relationship, I went right for it. Tiny
kitten heels were fine until the prom when I was allowed to explore 2” of
glory. I owned that dress. I owned the night and the two of us together
helped me discover how I could make the boys sweat, that a well-timed strut
across a floor was enough to ensnare the attention I craved. We walked across
the stage together as I received my diploma, you were the first item packed as
I went off to college, and the first item unpacked in my dorm room.
From
college into my twenties, you carried me through sorority formals and inched up
in height as I made my way into the professional world. You helped me walk with
confidence into my first day of work, you became a date night weapon with all
the wrong men, you even helped me escape a rather bad date when I drove your
spike right into the foot of an aggressive suitor.
I learned
to walk, to run, to strut and to stomp in your vast array of shapes and sizes.
I had you in every shape, every color, and it seemed we’d never end. You helped
boost me with confidence the day I quit my job, you carried my shaking ankles
the day I boarded a one-way flight to New York City to become a writer.
But, as
your heel height has been raised to astronomical proportions and dangerous
platforms have become part of your structure, our years of playing together
have secretly caused some serious damage. I have bones separating in my right
foot, causing searing pain every time I slip on anything that causes pressure
on the ball of the foot. The pain is so intense it causes tears within seconds.
This isn’t how I thought it would end.
The shapes
of my toes aren’t quite right and the lower back issues just aren’t worth it
anymore. Someone explained to me years ago that the best heels are shoes that
you wear from a car to your seat and back again, but as someone who has to
full-on race around town all day, I can’t imagine spending that kind of money
on that kind of pain or such a brief affair. Simply put: I want more.
The heart
is willing, but the ankles are weak. The pain is too great to bear...and so I
let you go.
I’m still
keeping a few of your designer editions as artwork in my home. And I couldn’t
part with my first pair of Jimmy Choos, but I fear I’m just too old to keep
hurting myself like this anymore. There are women with tougher feet and
constitutions lining up to hand over a month’s rent so you can carry them into
their future. It is to them I pass the torch...and anything over 2-2 1/2 “ in
heel height.
You’ve
meant everything to me, but I feel I’ve got to move on to lower boots and midi
heels. I’ll miss your strappy goodness and I’ll always think of you fondly as I
pass the windows of Bergdorf Goodman. I’ll have to catch my runway stride in
something that doesn’t cause so many tears...or the threat of surgery.
Goodbye,
my lovelies. It’s been amazing.
xo,
Kristin (Kristin Booker )
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