The Tale of the Five Inches

I love heels. Anyone who knows me, even a little, knows I am a shoe-a-holic with a special weakness for stiletto pumps. The higher, the better. Or so I thought. Bring 'em on.

On a visit to Phoenix, while browsing through the local Neiman Marcus. Then they caught my eye. My head whipped around almost to the point of whiplash. A pair of black patent Christian Louboutin “Pigalle” pumps with 5” heels. I had never been within touching range like this. Uncharted territory. I did have some 5-inch heels in my collection but they had platforms, which are pretty much like 5" heels with training wheels. But I digress. I only had eyes for those shoes, those ridiculously expensive shoes ( with REAL 5” heels), had been a major lust object for me for a while. I picked up the floor sample with a reverence usually reserved for a precious heirloom. The shoe guy asked if he could help me…I declined his offer, knowing that if I put them on it would be "case closed". I reluctantly put down the shoe. Walk out of the store, I told myself. There was an inner victory in resisting the siren song of Louboutin.

I left Arizona the next day. Nights passed and I just couldn't forget those shoes. One morning, after rationalizing paying the obscene price, I ordered my shoes. The longest wait of my life began. Really only 3 days, but it seemed like an eternity. Finally they arrived. I couldn’t open the box fast enough…all those stupid packing peanuts stood between me and my fabulous shoes. I reached the shoebox. There they were, the Mt. Everest of pumps. Eagerly I put them on and had, as Oprah would put it, an “aha” moment. Aha (well, really more like uh-oh) because I almost became (as Carrie Bradshaw put it) “fashion roadkill”. It was like walking on toe shoes. My feet were at a 90 degree angle, or so it seemed. Something was very wrong. NEVER had I had a problem walking in a heel. Maybe a flat but not a heel. No matter how I tried to reposition my feet they were equally as torturous. NO!!! The Pigalle dream, shattered. Ok, maybe it wasn't quite that traumatic, but let's say I was very very disappointed.

Two days later, I sadly returned them to my local Neimans and confessed that they were just too high. Just too high. I never thought I'd hear that from myself. He matter-of-factly did my credit and handed me my slip. Clearly he didn't have a clue about the monumental disappointment I had just gone through. That there was a heel I, the Queen of the Stiletto, couldn’t wear?

Maybe platforms aren’t cheating, after all?