I Wanted High Heels Not Low Heels

When my mother said I could wear heels I thought HIGH heels; was disappointed it was almost a flat. About an inch high. It did not make a satisfying click. I had hoped to be taller. At five foot two, I coveted being higher up. Only one eighth grade girl got to wear heels to our first dance. The rest of us hated her; our jealousy floating around the room. Until her feet got so sore she started to limp. None of us cheered, but there was some gloating. I gave my girlfriend a thumbs up. I wore my first high heels at prom. They were beautiful. I could barely contain my joy. Now I was the one limping with callouses. It was worth it, I told myself, because I felt beautiful. But it wasn’t. When I was a young mother in my early twenties, I fell off both high heeled shoes when I was walking up concrete steps On my way to work. I had sprained both ankles. I went from “feeling sassy and sexy” to miserable. It was the last time I wore high heels. This was in 1980.