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High heels
On bare feet, heels against the wall, a book on
my head, a line drawn along the top. The ruler
decides that I am five feet and eleven inches
tall. According to my passport I am exactly six
feet. So that’s a lie. Or was I wearing high
heels then? Maybe. All right, I am tall. Taller
than the average woman. Today though, that’s
less noticeable than in the past, for kids are
even taller now. Feels good, to look up at those
tall figures. When I was sixteen or seventeen, I
had taught myself a sort of crouch so that I
looked at least two inches shorter. I think
that’s where the hunch in my back came from. A
terrible cramp it caused in shoulders, back and
hips. But so what? You’d do anything not to
extend above that good-looking boy. If he really
was shorter, then those awakening feelings would
get nipped in the bud. Dead and never to awaken
again. Just imagine, me walking in the gutter
and that boy on the sidewalk. No way! Taller, or
else.
Nowadays I am happy enough with my height. I no
longer belong to the tallest in this world, and
I can simply stand up straight. Until recently,
when a Twitter girl friend made me think
seriously. Cryptically she said: “Hey Katja, a
work of art you’d put on a pedestal, wouldn’t
you?” “Yes, so what?” I replied. “Well,” she
said laughing, “a woman needs a bit of a
pedestal, too.” That made me think twice. Heels.
High heels. A quick calculation taught me that
with four inches extra I’d be six feet three.
“That’s men’s size,” I heard myself sputter. But
my Twitter friend refused to let me off the hook.
She sent me a beautiful picture of the gorgeous
shoes that she was wearing. The heels: four full
inches. Her length without high heels: six foot
one. Such daring! Off I was, heading for the
shops. “Do you have shoes with one-inch heels at
the most?” The ladies looked at me scornfully.
“One inch is the shelf over there,” they said,
pointing to the shelf with heels for the
sixty-plus. Ah, so trendy means high, I realised
straight away. High, higher, highest. I stepped
into a pair of ultramodern black suede Paul
Green shoes with an open toe and a heel of at
least two and a half inches. As nonchalant as
possible I tried to walk back and forth in the
shop. A quick dash I could forget. And is it
allowed to drive a car with those things on?
Admit it, they looked absolutely great, and I
felt beautiful. At least when only standing, for
when the saleswoman came closer, I looked like a
giraffe and she like a zebra. Lacking the
ability to decide, I sent a photo of the shoe to
my Twitter girl friend. Her immediate return
message: Buy it! NOW!
Click-clack-click-clack. Even my dog looked up
surprised from his basket. Suddenly I felt
conscious of every step. Walk beautifully,
that’s what you have to do with high heels. You
can’t even stroll with them. My kitchen a
catwalk. Don’t even imagine it! The first
‘human’ reaction came from my very own kids.
Their screaming laugh shot a hole in my
self-confidence and dented my ego severely.
“Mom, take those ri-di-cu-lous shoes off!”
“Thanks, boys”, I stammered, and threw off my
ultratrendy click-clackers. The youngest one
observed the scene from the couch, stood up and
went upstairs. A minute later she stood in front
of me, my Havaianas toe-slippers dangling at her
fingers.
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Written on 14 June 2010 |
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