A recent entry in the New York Times blog Room for Debate featured commentary from various authors and scholars on why women gravitate toward wearing high heels. Naturally, its title was "Why We Love the Shoes that Hurt Us, " and it prompted me to reflect on my own experiences with heels.
My immediate reactions were of both shock/dismay and intrigue. The shock came from seeing images from Paris Fashion Week, which featured footwear towering to 10 inches. Isn't that just a tad ridiculous?
My intrigue came from the notion that high heels are cute and sexy: If I'm having boring day with an evening out ahead, the first thing I'll contemplate to change my mood is usually changing my flats or sneakers for something with a little more lift.
But that doesn't make them comfortable.
For me, high heels have gone from something I would wear more often than not to shoes that only come out on special occasions. I'm not sure if this comes from my move to Boston (and just plain learning that heels and cobblestones don't get along) or growing older and opting for comfort over height. I still have a few pairs of heels, but they spend more time in the closet these days.
Aside from heels (clocking in at 3.5 inches, thank you) for my sister's wedding, my shoes in regular rotation haven't been high at all. Flip flops, flats, sneakers, clogs, boots have taken over my repertoire instead, and my "dressy" shoes feature a 1 inch kitten heel. I'm seemingly "over" heels instead of head-over-heels for them. Well, almost.
In August, while primping for a party, I reached for my patent leather d'Orsays with the bow at the toe. They matched my dress perfectly and provided a welcome retreat from an otherwise humid and boring Tuesday. I shoved them on and my feet ached even as I looked in the mirror. Deep down, I knew that -- even if I loved the outfit -- there would be no feasible way I could even make it out of my house in those shoes, let alone to the subway and to the cobblestone streets of Cambridge. Reluctantly, I put them away for a more sensible pair of Mary Janes and made my way to the party. And I still threw my shoes off at the end of the night.
My immediate reactions were of both shock/dismay and intrigue. The shock came from seeing images from Paris Fashion Week, which featured footwear towering to 10 inches. Isn't that just a tad ridiculous?
My intrigue came from the notion that high heels are cute and sexy: If I'm having boring day with an evening out ahead, the first thing I'll contemplate to change my mood is usually changing my flats or sneakers for something with a little more lift.
But that doesn't make them comfortable.
For me, high heels have gone from something I would wear more often than not to shoes that only come out on special occasions. I'm not sure if this comes from my move to Boston (and just plain learning that heels and cobblestones don't get along) or growing older and opting for comfort over height. I still have a few pairs of heels, but they spend more time in the closet these days.
Aside from heels (clocking in at 3.5 inches, thank you) for my sister's wedding, my shoes in regular rotation haven't been high at all. Flip flops, flats, sneakers, clogs, boots have taken over my repertoire instead, and my "dressy" shoes feature a 1 inch kitten heel. I'm seemingly "over" heels instead of head-over-heels for them. Well, almost.
In August, while primping for a party, I reached for my patent leather d'Orsays with the bow at the toe. They matched my dress perfectly and provided a welcome retreat from an otherwise humid and boring Tuesday. I shoved them on and my feet ached even as I looked in the mirror. Deep down, I knew that -- even if I loved the outfit -- there would be no feasible way I could even make it out of my house in those shoes, let alone to the subway and to the cobblestone streets of Cambridge. Reluctantly, I put them away for a more sensible pair of Mary Janes and made my way to the party. And I still threw my shoes off at the end of the night.
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