Party Feet

Women have been wearing high heels for over 100 years; so why did we have to wait until 2004, to get some relief for our sore balls? The moment I saw the advertisement, I knew I was the target audience. I immediately scoured all the drugstores in town. And at last I found the Sholl gel pads, which are inserted into the torturous shoes, guaranteeing painless party nights and long shopping sprees.

Unlike most high-heeled strutters, my feet were not moulded and coerced (geisha-like) into painfully restricting shoes at a tender young age. Consequently, my feet are not shaped like those of a Barbie doll but perfectly natural, silky smooth, with a high arch and straight well-formed toes. I have no ingrown toenails, calluses, hard skin or other such unsightly effects of wearing harmful footwear. In fact, the soles of my footsies are so silky that I slide off exercise mat whenever I’m in the warrior pose, during power yoga.

On the other hand, I suffer great agony every time I slip into a pair of high-heels. I wish I could be discreet about my discomfort and suffer in silence like all those dignified women who appear to have been born wearing their stilettos. But let’s face it, these shoes were not made to walk in, climb down a steep hill, buy groceries and carry them home on foot. Rather, they are designed for women to stand around looking pretty, showing off an outfit to best advantage and be driven to places by men in cars. This kind of footwear is high maintenance, demanding a certain life-style to go with it. You don’t walk to the pub to go listen to a live gig in 7 cm heels; you drive to your destination and spend the rest of the evening seated on a comfortable opera chair or at worst perched on a barstool (which incidentally, shows off your shoes to best advantage).

But ever since I figured that a few extra inches add a rather flattering and slimming effect to my silhouette, I’ve acquired quite a sizable collection of high heel shoes. Contrary to common belief (I’m known as the earthy type who likes to keep her feet firmly planted on the ground), I own a great array of feminine, sophisticated and girly highs. Pumps, wedges, stilettos, Mary janes, ankle boots, slip-ons, strapless sandals, booties, kitten heels … are all in mint condition inside the original boxes that I’ve stacked in my spare bathroom, which is now converted into a shoe-closet. But no matter how expensive the shoe, the intensity of the pain, the pinching and the burning sensation remain the same.

The problem is that I won’t resign myself to the fact that these shoes are restrictive in every way. Maybe it’s time I gave in to the girly-girl inside of me and truly let her out of the shoe-closet. Maybe I should do like my friend Clare. She lives no further than 500 meters from the pub but because she wanted to wear her new pointy-toed Prada boots with 10 cm heels one night, she drove her car to the pub so she could park it right at the front. I made fun of her at first, but later I asked her for a lift home.