Fucking mother fucker of all things fucked, my feet are goddamned killing me. I slipped on a brand new pair of cheap-ass, totally discounted, snake skin, grey, peep-toe, open backed pumps and walked around in my apartment for two seconds. I looked at my dress and decided I needed the height, so after the two second test, I deemed these pumps suitable for a night at an art show. I am such a moron.
Every time I put on a pair of heels that I know hurt my feet, I promise myself I’m not going to complain no matter how much they’re killing me. Every time I find myself at the beginning of the night having just walked 2 blocks (or 7, depending on the location), thinking aloud, wow, my feet are already hurting. Somewhere about 5 minutes into the evening I start scoping somewhere to sit, and telling everyone in ear shot that my feet hurt. Then when inevitably there isn’t anywhere to sit, I start to drink, which makes me tell people more loudly that my feet are hurting. Then when even the alcohol isn’t working, I take off my shoes, and tell people it’s because my feet? they are hurting. And then I walk around barefoot. Sometimes outside. In Los Angeles. (Hint: This is gross and maybe a little dangerous given the amount glass people seem to throw out their windows in LA. Why so breaky, Angelenos?)
I had a relationship with a foot dude. I understand feet. I know what makes them sexy. I know how a high arch peeking out of the top of your 3 inch pump can be seen as a total come-on. I know what to do with my feet if someone is into them. I have used my feet in ways that while in the moment totally not embarrassing, but talking about in mixed company, totally mortifying. I love the way I feel when I’m wearing high, high, super-high heels, and a man walks by and glances at my toes. It’s not the shoes, baby, it’s the feet. But fuck me, I want a refund. My feet are broke down. My toes are tired.
Why do I bother to wear pretty shoes that cut my feet? I wish I could subvert the patriarchy (or whatever) and just say fuck it and wear flats. At the same time, I wish I was one of those women who are always wearing amazing shoes and never talking about how much their feet are hurting. Are their feet even hurting? How could they not be. I know that by wearing heels I’m doing the modern, self inflicted (totally pussy and not nearly as fucked up) version of foot binding. I want my feet to represent my sexuality. And because I’ve dated a foot man, they have. And I’m aware of them. I’m aware of yours.
It occurred to me when I was sitting on the roof all those weeks ago, wearing my most comfortable pair of heels, that even the most comfortable heels fucking hurt after a while. I stretched my legs out and pointed my toes in the shoes, effectively lifting my arch up to peeking out of the top. I had a man sitting on either side of me. One looked down and said, “Wow, you have really pretty feet.” The other looked down and then in a perfectly natural and easy way reached down and touched my arch with his finger, “Yeah… you really do.”
And the thing is, I don’t have pretty feet. If I showed them to you, you’d notice the flaws. You would. But, I know how to fuck with the illusion. And that’s where it gets sticky for me. Shouldn’t I be a better feminist and say “fuck the illusion, this is me?” The problem is, I don’t know as a woman if I’m the illusion - the make-up, the bra, the heels, the hair, the sparkling laugh - or I’m me - the eyes, the guffaw, the blue humor, the shoulder to bitch on.
So I leave you with this, I’m still bitter that my new shoes gave me a blister, but I’d totally wear them again.