Heels, not wheels

Day One
I ride my bike over to this shoe shop in Lincoln Park to pick up a pair of fancy heels for my TOC assignment. The ones that they shipped over to the office were too narrow, so I thought I’d go a half-size up since it seems that a wider width was not available. The shop [Lori’s Shoes] is a total hen house. The place was full of ladies, ladies, ladies—all chattering away. I don’t think I’ve been in such a gender-separate space since my last trip to the office bathroom. It’s one of those stores where you just hunt around for the shoes you want on your own. Frankly, I think if you’re going to be shopping for extreme footwear, that’s a problem. It seemed impossible to find a salesperson. Was no one concerned about helping customers make sure their equipment was fitting their anatomy properly for safe and effective action?

I remember when I was a ballet dancer; we used to order our pointe shoes according to our preferences, even specifying the maker because each cobbler had a different style. I preferred wide shoes with high vamps because I have a wide foot and a high arch. I put heels in the same category as pointes, because they can cause injury if they don’t fit right. In my opinion, people who sell heels should give a shit about fitting the shoe to the foot, and shouldn’t just hand a lady a box and put the charge card through. My fantasy shoe shopping assistant would be a classy, doting, foot-fetishist-slash-podiatrist-salesboy with an accent of some kind. I’d want both my heels and my ego to feel elevated, appreciated and well-supported.

Day 2
The most radical thing about wearing these hoofs is the way they slow my ass down. I really cannot be in a hurry, and I often am. I’ve taken to keeping flip-flops handy in my backpack in case I want to move faster than a slouchy, stoned-out saunter. And then  there’s the “whole look” factor. These shiny pumps call out for tailored skirts, shaved legs, and stockings with seams, none of which I care to rock these days.

So I remain the post-punk, hippy-dippy, hairy, sexually ambiguous yet femme-y arty slob that I am from the ankles up, and a Vargas pinup girl from the ankles down. It’s pretty hilarious. And: Ouch. I really don’t think I can wear those damn things for more than a few hours at a time. The balls of my feet are super sore, and the rim of the shoe chafes at the knuckle of my big toe. At work, I kick them off and freely wiggle my happy toes under the desk. Woo!

Day 3
You know what, these things really do not fit. I wore them to the theater last night, and one of my friends said they gapped at the heel. So I look like I’m wearing mommy’s shoes, I guess. And yet my toes still feel like they don’t have enough space. So today I stuffed cotton balls in the fronts of the shoes so my toes are in a wider part of the shoe and my whole foot slides farther back towards the heel. It’s working pretty well. The chafing thing is still going on so I’m sporting a Band-Aid now, and carrying replacements around with me. This shit is high-maintenance.

This evening, I wore the shoes to grocery shop at Whole Foods, feeling totally foolish getting out of my dirty, rundown car and tottering across the parking lot. It felt good to lean on the shopping cart with my stomach to take weight off my feet as I rolled along the aisles. By now my feet are sore. I can’t say I’ve gotten too many comments from any admirers. One guy on the street said “Nice shoes!” but that’s about it. Surely I would have gotten more attention if I’d chosen to coordinate my clothing with my footwear. So when’s the fancy-dress assignment coming my way?