Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels.
Let me tell you about my life in high heels. It lasted about 25 years, and then I had my feet surgically taken apart and put back together. And that was that. But until then….
The first heels that that caused me memorable pain were a pair of white strappy sandals with 2” high heels. It was June 1970, and I stepped into this adorable pair of brand new heels to spend the day bopping around Manhattan with my first true love, Bill. By the end of the day the straps had raised blisters the size of pigeon eggs across my toes and had rubbed the back of my ankles to raw meat. But at 18 years old, I wouldn’t have cared if I were bleeding from the mouth—much less my feet—because I was with Bill.
The next pair of shoes to bring tears to my eyes were the heels I bought to interview for my first real job. They were Buccellati’s, little woven huarache-style sling backs, and utterly fetching—except for the fact that the shanks (the steel support that runs under the arch of the foot and keeps the shoe functionally rigid) in both shoes were broken or missing or something… (And looking back on it, that’s probably why they were affordable—because they were defective.) The shoes flexed and bowed with every step. It was like walking on springs or foam rubber. The shoes were fine when I walked very slowly. But once I ramped up to a normal pace, they were all over the road.
By the mid-1970’s, I was regularly stomping around in high heels on my way to and from work. My most enduring memory of that era is the agonizing walk down the IND subway entrance tunnel at 179th Street in Jamaica. Slowly I walked...step by step... inch by inch… Every bump, heave, hole and crack in the pavement is still with me as I recall each painful step. I cheered myself on with the thought that I was ½ way through the tunnel, and now ¾ of the way through the tunnel…. And once I had made my way up the lumpy, uneven stairs to the street, I was faced with a looooong block of broken and uneven sidewalk before I could plop down in my car.
In the late ‘70’s I attended an after-work seminar with my boss at the Roosevelt Hotel. My boss, Dick (a handsome, strapping man blessed with a majestic 6’ 3” frame and the gender–conferred privilege of wearing wing tip shoes) planned to catch the M104 bus to get to the seminar. That meant that we would have to walk the distance from 42nd Street to the Roosevelt Hotel at 45th Street. I was wearing a handsome pair of brown, high-heeled boots with 2½ “ stacked wood heels. Very professional and sharp, but also God Almighty painful. “Let’s take a cab,” I suggested. But no, Dick could see no reason why we wouldn’t take the bus. “Well, fine, then. When we get off the bus you can carry me to the hotel.” I remember the look of horror on the poor man’s face. He wasn’t sure if I was kidding or not. In any event, Dick didn’t see the humor in that remark, and so I walked the excruciating three blocks from the bus to the hotel alongside a very tall man with very long strides. I thought I was going to die.
The happiest day of my life was April 1, 1980: the first day of the New York City transit strike and the day that changed fashion history forever. Until then, women wore high heels on subways, buses, railroads and—worst of all—NYC streets. It was a question of convention and pride. Once they got to the office they might very well change into their bunny slippers. (And some did just that.) But the ritual and regalia of the commute were sacrosanct.
All that changed during the transit strike. Someone arrived at the utterly brilliant idea of wearing running shoes to hoof across bridges, boroughs and boulevards. You changed into heels when you arrived at a civilized destination with carpeting, level floors and elevators. O frabjous day! After that, the freakish sight of women dressed to the nines, topped off with Nikes and sweat socks, became the norm throughout the city.
Flash forward to Christmas 1988. I was wearing a towering pair of red stiletto heels to Peter’s office holiday party. This was the one time in my life when I couldn’t resist a pair of 3” heels. They were absolutely captivating. But I literally tottered and swayed as I walked in them. Peter asked me why I kept hanging on his sleeve. “You wanna know why? Because I can’t stay on my feet in these f***in’ shoes!” Oh well, in that case just hang on, he agreed. (Who says Peter’s not a saint?) I spent the evening shifting my weight from one throbbing foot to the other, praying for the night to be over and wondering how I was going to walk back to the car.
These days I admire pointy-toed high heels from a distance—like a recovering addict giving his drug of choice a wide and respectful berth. Once in a while I give in to the temptation to try on an irresistible pair of stilettos at DSW—where I am ostensibly shopping for sensible Keds or driving moccasins. I slide my feet into those beautiful shoes and pivot in front of the mirror to get the full effect. In the right pair of heels, with a low instep, even my ankles look good. I shudder with the pleasure and the pain…. And then I slip them off. Who am I kidding? I can’t sit upright at a dinner table in the damned things—much less walk in them.
No comments:
Post a Comment