Dear John: Heels are irrelevant

2/13/08

By Riché Pinchingpenny
Critic Columnist

I want to talk about apparel. Those hastily shed piles of disgust before a big date, an important interview, an encounter with an ex. Nothing seems to fit when I want it to, but shoes never let me down. I love high heels. I am not a tall woman. I wear them for height dammit! But a guy ruined high heels for me. He loves the way my ass sways when I walk in heels. He foams at the mouth when my boots peek out from the hem of my jeans. My god, you’d have thought I’d flashed a boob! Oh, I suppose I can see the attraction in a pair of heels: curves, smoothness, danger. Better yet, no opinions or emotions. But how would he feel if I only noticed the bulge in his pants; based his entire worth on a few wobbly inches?

This guy isn’t my lover. I don’t give a damn what he thinks about my body. That he’s suddenly made me self-conscious of my body is the shame. “It’s for the best,” I grumble, slipping my feet into a pair of sneakers; he won’t leer at me today.

For the best… Sonofabitch! I’m doing it again. It was “for the best” when my ex told me to lose a few pounds; it was “for the best” when he brought hard-core porn into the bedroom. “Come on Baby. Try to act like you enjoy it.” (Don’t get me wrong, I love erotica. Watching women grimace while blinking back eyefuls of cum? Turn on Jeopardy.) Maybe if I got a better job, took more time off, and giggled more it would also be for the best. I dumped the man. Who needs the shit?

Being single, I found something admirable: I like my perfectly imperfect self. I like the way my body moves, soft under my own fingertips, slow and unrushed; I like wine more than beer, the Yankees more than the Red Sox; it’s ok to be lazy on Sunday mornings; and I can stack a neat cord of firewood. Heels are irrelevant.