Oh, my goodness. So many requests to see the shoes. You young people.
Well, okay. Here is one of the pictures Jen took of my shoes. You can see the nifty rubber sole, which makes me feel nice and safe as I walk on slick tile floors, and makes a satisfying sound to boot; no annoying little click-clacks on my feet, no sir!
What you can’t see is the heel. You will have to wait until I get home and download off my camera the other pictures we took. Until that time, though, rest assured, it is a boss heel, a black vinyl stiletto heel as fetishy as they come. My friend Michelle and I measured the heels one afternoon. They are 3 ½” inches high, which means that I am 5’5 ½” out of the shoes, but 5’9” in them. I cannot begin to encapsulate how fabulous this makes me feel.
By now, I’m sure you’re thinking one of two things: 1. “Yawn. Another woman with a shoe fetish.” 2. “What the hell is up with those shoes?”
First things first: I know that women are supposed to be all about the shoes, particularly New York City women, but trust me, I have never had a thing about shoes. In high school and college, I lived in Bass Weejuns. For years, I only had three pairs of shoes, including the sneakers I wore to work out. Once I decided I could use more than three pairs of shoes, I found a designer I liked – Kenneth Cole – and stuck to him. Used to be that the sexiest shoes I owned were a pair of brown Kenneth Cole loafers with a 2-inch platform heel. Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo leave me cold.
But much as every dog has its day, every rose has its thorn and every band has a Shonen Knife who loves them, for every woman there exists a pair of shoes that literally elevates her to another plane. I found mine at Designer Shoe Warehouse while outlet shopping with a gaggle of shoe-crazy femmes. I wandered off on my own, found a nice sensible pair of chocolate-brown oxfords to go with my sensible chocolate-brown sweater and trousers. I found a pair of duck boots to wear when the weather turned nasty. Then I saw a pink and black box labeled “dollhouse.” Sitting on top was this shoe.
It did not look like a shoe you would find at an outlet on Long Island. It looked mean. It looked like it would hurt you if you looked at it crosswise. It looked like a shoe that my more sensible friends would find absolutely insane. Hey, baby, it said to me.
I take a size 9. There were no 9’s, only 8’s and 10’s. I sighed, sucked it up, pulled the 10’s from the rack. This, I learned that day, is the secret of comfortable stiletto heels: go up a full size from your usual size, and they will not hurt or pinch you in any way. They fit like I was born to wear them. Michelle walked up to me as I was trying them on. She looked at the spat toes, the binding, the vicious, vicious heel. “Jen,” she said, “this is a whole new side of you.”
Damn right. I can’t tell you what happens to me when I wear these shoes at work. People who used to not look twice in my direction now look at the shoes and make comments like “yowza.” Straightlaced business guys look at me like they want me to beat them up. My office crush gives me the most bright and shiny looks, with speculative glances at my feet, when I have these on. One of the mailroom ladies calls them my “Cab Calloway shoes,” which I just love, particularly on days when I wear pinstripes. Ladies and gentlemen, I was a skeptic, but now I believe. I once was lost, but now am found, was bound, but now…I’m bound even further, by grey Velcro straps.
