An Open Letter to Heels

Dear Heels,

We’re still just acquaintances, you and I. It’s just been about eight years since I first slipped a pair on to stumble about my church like some awkward pubescent giraffe.

I’ve come a long way from my twelve-year-old self’s awkward attempts at walking on chunky stack heels and canvas wedges. High school speech and debate forced me into a few conservative black pumps, which ultimately helped my balance, though there were more than a few spills in the middle of crowded high school cafeterias as I skid about on waxed tile. Heels, you and I got better. You were never my number one pick, but I could respect the way you made me look like a badass business woman.

Then, heels, I met Carrie Bradshaw. Sex and the City’s protagonist taught me to the appreciation of fine footwear. The perfect pair of shoe really could make an outfit. The probably was, my budget and practicality wouldn’t allow me to even dare look for the perfect pair. Despite my desire, I steered clear of your pointiness and stayed with my comfy flats. I wanted you, but I was the awkward girl at the dance in a Mormon-esque denim skirt, with frizzy hair and braces (I actually have a picture of me at as middle school dance dressed suspiciously near this description), and you, heels, were the hot ninth grader in a Hollister polo with hair that was so gelled it looked permanently wet — out of my league.

Now heels, I’m in college and I recognize that investing in you is probably both necessary (gotta build up a professional wardrobe) and impractical (do I want to kill my feet over a 10-hour day of walking to classes and meetings on the uneven brick paths my university decided to sporadically use across campus?). You’re still a little out of my league. But that doesn’t matter. Because when I see you on sale at Charolette Russe and Forever 21, you’re mine. No questions asked (except, you know, “are these my size?”).

Oh heels. You make my ass and calves look freaking awesome. Despite the fact that wearing you makes me taller than most of my bro-friends, and that can be a little awkward for them, I love you. You give me confidence. You give me something kind of like grace. You give me achy feet, but it’s worth it. Because, in you, not only do I stand 1-3 inches taller, I feel like some kind of power business woman, or at the very least, someone with an ass and calves that look freaking awesome.

Hugs, Kisses, and All That Jazz,



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