I have loved high heels for as long as I can remember. Long before I felt my stomach flip as I watched the older girls at school pass by in their platforms. Shoe envy. Maybe even as far back as when the sound of my Godmother tip-toeing down the street in stilettos barely made my tiny body stir in its sleep. Who knows? But it is in me. Love, real love.
I don’t consider it a problem. Never an addiction. Where is the harm? Who does it hurt? Certainly not me. However, others don’t always agree. My boyfriend often kindly suggests I wear ballet pumps out and carry my much loved heels in my bag until we arrive at our destination (he is too smart to simply question their comfort). But he wouldn’t understand. He has never worn them. And, when I was pregnant at work, the height of my heels even featured on my risk assessment. I was a good girl and complied (just) but it only made my desire deeper.
You see, the ones I really love aren’t even meant for walking, let alone work. The perfect heel is most definitely impractical. If you get it right, you will need a taxi. And maybe a day booked in bed with your legs elevated. If you are lucky. They should speak before the rest of your outfit and let the room know that you mean business. The colour is irrelevant, the style of the shoe is neither here nor there. You see, when you are searching for that beautiful boost; size matters.