Heels on Earth

Day One
I thought it might be nice to start this little experiment on a Sunday and ease into it, before facing public transportation and Loop traffic. I strap on my little guinea pigs just after 11 that morning, and make a mental note to wear them for a solid eight hours before calling it a day.

Challenge #1: Descending my railingless staircase, which forces me to walk as slowly and carefully as possible to avoid pulling a Pollyanna down the hardwood steps. Several minutes later, I arrive safely in the kitchen to make breakfast. Easy enough, as everything—including items in the highest cabinets—are now within easy reach. But the highlight of my morning is sitting down after standing over the stove for five minutes, as my feet are already killing me. I check the time: 11:52am. Yowza. I resolve right there and then to do as little walking as possible for the duration of this assignment. (Ever notice why so many women gingerly step out of cabs wearing heels? Bingo.) Besides, my only real plans for the day are errands in other neighborhoods.

Challenge #2: Driving my manual-transmission vehicle. In order to avoiding getting my four-inch heel stuck under the clutch pedal, I have to drive on my tiptoes. As for the errands, standing over a copier for 15 minutes is annoying, and standing around at the video store for what seems like forever while waiting for friends to pick out movies, is physically painful. I shift weight constantly and squat on the gross, worn carpet a few times to relieve the pressure on each foot, but it comes off looking like I just have to pee really badly. People stare; I could give a shit. I make it through my required eight hours, but put my feet up during the movies.

Day Two
After taking a day off to recover, I strap on the puppies at 8:30am and—in order to draw as little attention as possible to my shoes’ slut potential—pair them with narrow jeans. My calves are still sore from Sunday’s maiden voyage, but it almost feels good—like I’ve been running a lot. (Oh, the irony.)

Though I have to back up an additional two feet to see my new, giantess self in my full-length mirror, I look good, and feel confident. Height, I’ve decided, equals power. And people on the street notice. Coworkers notice—one of them, a bit skeptically: “I’m not sure I can hang out with you if you’re going to be this tall,” he says, squinting up at me as we head to lunch—a painful three blocks away. I write it off as jealousy.

Challenge #3: Trying not to look down on the little people, when all day, I’m looking down on the little people. After lunch, I can’t wait to get back to my cubicle just to rest my toes. As it turns out, wearing heels to the office (read: sitting in a cubicle all day with occasional trips to the bathroom) is pretty painless. Still, I rip the things off immediately upon arriving home.

Day Three
Today, I venture into skirt-and-four-inch-heels territory. Too short, though, and I could be mistaken for a hooker, so I opt for a floaty knee-length number. On my way to the office, I take a corner a little too quickly (to escape the catcalls of bums) and nearly teeter over, but recover. I’m almost walking at a normal pace. Almost. The residual damage to my squashed pinky-toes isn’t even that bad, either. I’m starting to think this assignment was worth it. Free shoes? Sign me up. Minor discomfort for three days? No sweat. The opportunity to tower above everyone I meet? Priceless.