Keep Your Heels High

I’m a woman who likes heels; I never met a pair of heels I didn’t like. The bolder the better. Red stilettos and polka-dot kitten heels. Peep toe and closed toe. Ankle straps and sling backs. Bring them all to me; I am the Veruca Salt of shoes, people. Don’t know who Veruca Salt is? Are you kidding me?? I can see how some of you may not recall the indie rock chick band of the same name from the early 90’s; I’ll let that slide (with reservation, some day I will wax poetic about all the 90’s chick rockers that I FREAKING LOVE), but the actual character of Veruca Salt? Come ON.

A brash lady I once knew, who has sadly since left us, used to call my heels cockroach killers. She gave me no end of grief for showing up to a party wearing heels. I took it in stride and gave her plenty of guff in return, which she loved. I’m not sure why she called them that…maybe because the pointy toes could reach into small places to kill cockroaches? Frankly, cockroaches, or any bug for that matter, scare the hell out of me. I’m more likely to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction in those same heels. Watch as roll an ankle in the process. I just saw her two sisters at a gathering and proudly showed up in a pair of red suede heels that were to DIE FOR. Dawn would have laughed her ass off.

I’m a petite 5’3″ tall and as I have gotten older am more than likely shrinking. My grandmother claimed till the day she died that she was 5 foot tall because that’s what it said on her license. In truth, she was probably about 4’9″ and needed a pillow to see over the steering wheel in her car. So I know what my future holds and it includes needing a taller step stool to reach the high shelves in my pantry. Here’s hoping I won’t need that car pillow as well.

For all my short stature, people think I’m actually pretty tall. So much so, that when I show up to something wearing sneakers or flats, they look me up and down and say “wow, you’re actually pretty short.” Uh, yeah. Height does not run in my family.

Here’s the secret; I carry myself tall. Shoulders back, tits out, chin up. I don’t walk, I barrel into a room, often with the added effect of a dramatic greeting like “What’s up, bitches?!” Combine that with the heels and I am positively Amazonian. Last year, one of the most fabulous co-workers I’ve ever had dressed as me for Halloween. The costume consisted of a long blond wig, distressed jeans and high red heels. She knocked it out of the park; the entire company knew immediately who she was channeling. I didn’t know if I should be mortified or flattered; I chose the latter.

Shoes are life people. Another very dear friend gifted me with pair of cheetah print sling backs that were too small for her years ago. Let me tell you, I wore the hell out of those shoes. I finally had to part with them when the left heel snapped off. I buried them in the backyard next to a lovely red maple tree and visit them often to tell them about the other shoes I purchased recently.

KIDDING; my neighbors already think I am nuts; I will not add fuel to their fire.

So when we meet; don’t be shocked if I notice your shoes first. No judgement; if you are not a heel-lover like me, that’s perfectly cool. But if you’re rocking a pair of leopard/snakeskin/suede/patent leather heels, prepare to be gushed over. If you stalk into a room like a fellow Amazon, I will immediately want to be friends with you. Because I am all about that shit.

Life is short; buy the shoes.

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