I have yet to master the art of prancing around fancy free in a pair of really high heels. On my best day I can do a great impression of a just born baby giraffe and if my husband walks very S-L-O-W-L-Y my gait is not so terribly pronounced that you would stare or anything. I’ll bet you don’t even have to ask if this persuades me to stick to flats – but for the record it does not.
I remember going into my Nana’s house at a very young age and carefully taking our pair after pair of her shoes from their individual storage boxes, then slipping them one and attempting to walk as quickly as I could in them. I toppled over more than once, but when I made it any length without injury I was euphoric. I still feel that way now.
Last night I wore the highest heels I have bought in a long time and thought for at least a half a second about not wearing them. I would be safer in flats and such, but when I first laid eyes on the pair I bought I couldn’t turn away. So I wore them, and I stepped tiny steps up to the country club last night for the event, with a steady arm at my side while avoiding all the pitfalls – which I gotta say isn’t a bad way to sail through an evening.