Ah, shoes. Actually no, not shoes in general, after all who gives a fuck about men's shoes, or indeed, a kitten heel? Nobody that's who. We know that the only thing worth talking about, writing about, and in extreme cases displaying in a glass display cabinet, are high heels. The more vertiginous and outlandish the better. This is a fact, there is no point arguing with me, because I simply won't have it. There's also the fact that I will counter every argument you make with the response of, 'yes, yes but do you like my shoes?'.
As you can probably tell, this is a love letter to the heel, be it spiked, stacked or wedged, as long as they're 3" plus then I salute them. In this case boys and girls, size really does matter.
So why high heels? Well, firstly walking in them is an art form and ought to be eligible as a legitimate entry on a CV. The concentration it takes to look as though one is effortlessly gliding along, is on a par with Zen meditation - the practice of focusing your body on one repetitive task, freeing your mind to consider other spiritual and worldly matters. Admittedly most practitioners prefer raking gravel into weirdly pointless swirly patterns, but each to their own. This explains why I can often be seen tottering along in a 5" concealed platform heel (Brown leather. Prada. Swoon) looking slightly perplexed. Obviously I am considering the political dynamic between the west and Russia since the fall of the U.S.S.R.
Yes they can hurt, but as Ja Rule so winningly noted, love is pain. It's almost a badge of honour, and a source of competition with my fellow femmes, a statement of how tough we are. Pounding the mean streets in 5 inches is not for the faint hearted and should be admired. In fact, why don't we see high heeled competitive events in the Olympics? That's discrimination right there. As every women who's been in this position will attest, running for the bus in a stiletto is an art, nay, an athletic triumph of feet over uneven paving, and the stealth threat of the erratically paced tourist.
I'm sorry, but you just can't get worked up about flats. I've tried and frankly they're boring. It can't be helped, I have to say it - flats are for pussies. Yup. Really. It's like wanting to drink champagne, but ending up with lambrusco. Overly sweet, easily accessible, and liable to leave you feeling bit funny. I am a woman damn-it. A grown up in stilettos who will walk all over you if you ask me nicely. Worship at my perfectly shod feet and be grateful you've got that close.
For the serious shoe connoisseur, the shoe shop is the church of our particular religion. Upon entering, the pilgrim pauses briefly to genuflect at the 'STATEMENT SHOE', which takes centre stage of the display area. Religious observances complete, we then cast our gaze around the shelves, dismissing the ugly, the pointless, and the sports shoe (shudder). Our only want is the jewel in the shoe shop crown - the high heel. Roll up, roll up, ladies and gentlemen, such sights you've never seen before! Marvel at the heel height, gasp at the engineering of butter soft leather and whimper with joy at the range of colours available in every style. The best part is the secret flush of pride (not a sin in my religion) when the shop girl approves of your choice. A benediction indeed. Impressing the fast moving, usually uber-trendy shop girl is not easily done. She's seen bad shoes happen to good people, she's seen trends come and go, and she's seen a lot of Uggs. She's a tough cookie, she won't be easily broken, so when you get the nod of approval you know you've made it baby.
Time to wrap this up, I've got stuff to do you know. So, to conclude, I put forth the following argument; I am right, not only am I right on this occasion, I am always right. Plus, and here's the kicker (ha!), I can work a heel like a mo-fo.
I know, I'm sorry, it's a devastating tactic, it's probably left you speechless. To make yourself feel better you should go buy yourself some new heels, go on, spoil yourself.