Heels thyself

Day One
I'm far from a shoe fiend—the kicks that get the most action in my closet include Converse, Vans and Nikes—but if there's one shoe designer I adore, it's Chie Mihara. So you can imagine my freaking disbelief when House of Sole owner Tiffany Bullock donated a $345 pair of pumps for this assignment.

I start off giddy, but over the course of my 10-minute walk to the L (which normally takes about five), I go from feeling sexy to self-conscious to downright miffed. To top it off, it's an absurdly hot day, and something about wearing these heels induces extra moisture from my already over-active sweat glands. On the L, no one gives up a seat for me. I decide that the etiquette of offering your spot to pregnant women and elderly folk ought to apply to women in heels as well. For 30 minutes, it feels like the weight of my entire body rests on the balls of my feet. The only thing that quells the pain is the series of compliments I get from women who stop me on the street after I get off the train.

The day goes by smoothly—walking to the printer and the bathroom is all the movement I have to deal with—and I feel revived by 5pm. So when I just miss the bus, I decide to walk the 20 minutes to the market. Bad idea.

In the checkout line, I'm on the verge of tears. I've worked myself into such a tizzy, I actually feel nauseous. Despite steadfast efforts to keep my journalistic integrity intact, I cannot bear the thought of holding three bags of groceries on a packed Chicago Avenue bus, so I tear off the heels and slip into the emergency flip-flops I’m carrying in my purse. I look at my feet and see blistered heels, callused soles, and redness all over.

Day Two
When the alarm rings at 7, I arise with a feeling of dread—or is it resentment? —toward the shoes. I'm going out of town tonight and had planned on remaining in heels for the next 48 hours, but after yesterday's trials, that prospect seems insurmountable.

I try to regain a positive attitude as I check out my reflection in storefront windows; I attribute my perkier boobs, leaner legs and flatter tummy to my new heels-induced posture—a major plus for the pumps.

To keep my mind off the pain during the train ride (again standing), I compile a list of activities not to be attempted while wearing heels: standing on the L for more than one stop; attempting to cross the street, even if a car is a good 500 feet away; walking for more than five minutes.

After a half-day at work, I force myself to hit the gym. I am desperately feeling the need to reassert my ability to use my feet as more than props for fashionable footwear. I'm relived when I land on the treadmill, and I don't even mind the feeling of my shoes rubbing against the blisters on my toes.

But for the trip to the airport, the heels take up a spot in my suitcase.

Day Three
When I wake up, I'm actually excited to put the heels on once again. I bind my pinky toes in Band-Aids and feel confident that I can make it one more day. The plan: keep walking to a minimum. And the day, not surprisingly, goes pretty much without a hitch. 

At lunch, I receive extra attentive service and lots of smiles from the servers. I even start to admire other women’s heels as they pass by. Little trips like walking to the ladies room actually become fun. By night, relieved as I am to slip into sneakers, I don't feel the need to tear off the heels. We've made amends.

Would I wear heels again? Certainly, when I'm feeling particularly lady-like inclinations, but never for more than a few hours. I like my feet and my freedom way too much for that.