High heels may be the most irresistibly ridiculous invention ever.
I didn't participate in the high heels fad in high school. And I barely did it in college. Only for special ceremonies would anyone catch me in ankle-twisting stilettos. But as an adult, I find my obsession with spikey shoes growing at an unparalleled pace.
Fire engine red, Katie's kayak blue, snowy white and cosmopolitan berry, - whatever that means - I can't resist a shoe of every color. Or any color.
So I've finally made my graceful ascension into the stereotype of all stereotypes - women have no money...blah blah...something about too many shoes.
Well, it's not like this sickness was something I wanted as a burden.
I have to look at those shoes every morning and decide which ones will torment me for the next 10 hours.
The three-and-a-half reds? No, too much walking today, I don't need a Charley horse during lunch.
How about the 2-inch pinkies? They match perfectly with that shirt (totally a coincidence).
It's that or the most comfortable slip-on shoes I've ever owned, in which my sister recently called "butch." Albeit, I laughed, because they did look pretty man-ish next to my reds with the cute little buckle, but I think I'll be retiring those now.
So I sigh while meticulously applying what my brother-in-law refers to as "war paint" each morning, because I know I can't wear the comfortable ones. It's the heels or bust.
Who invented high heels anyway?
It certainly wasn't a woman - no woman would voluntarily put herself through such torture.
At first, it's great. You're looking good; the heels look perfect with your carefully planned ensemble.
But make sure you've given yourself a pedicure recently, or your toenails will feel like they are being shoved into the bones of your feet. Not pretty.
And you might want to wrap your pinky toes in gauze - in two hours, those little puppies will feel completely skinned.
If you walk more than three minutes at a time, you'd better practice putting your weight anywhere but the balls of your feet. Don't even try standing in one place for more than 10 minutes; it will feel more like you've been in a tribal firewalking ceremony.
Keep in mind that if you're actively protecting the balls of your feet, your lower back will eventually feel like someone whacked you repeatedly with a tree branch.
And your calves ... your poor calves. There's no way around it, they will be mincemeat - memories of three-a-day volleyball practices viciously flood back. The intense soreness, the immediate regret, and the sobbing that ensues when just a toe meets the hard floor.
If you're going out with your significant other that night, you might as well bring the butch shoes. If he loves you, he'll stay regardless of the heel height.
What he won't love is walking at a caterpillar's pace around the mall because you're straggling along like a broken robot.
"I told you not to wear those shoes. How fantastic do they look now?"
Of course, they still look fantastic. It's your body that won't work. Because your pinky toe is numb, so your balance is topsy-turvy, and you are certain the balls of your feet are no longer covered in skin, and putting weight on your heels instantly begins a fainting spell, and you're struggling through the worst calf spasms in high heel history.
But it's worth it. The girl at the checkout counter sees the pain in your eyes. She sympathizes. She's been there. She knows just what you need. With a warm smile and eyes wide with envy, she gives you a reason to fight through the burning, aching, and general agony, and trudge on in your favorite three-and-a-half inch fire engine reds.
"Love your shoes!"
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Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
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