“You may have noticed, my daughter has some space issues,” my mother once introduced herself, after picking up myself and my new boyfriend from college. Besides being the world’s worst first-conversation topic, my mom was actually speaking two-fold: She had always been worried that I (emotionally and physically) kept people at a distance unless I was literally tackling them; and also, as she described it, “You had problems navigating your body in space.” While that may sound very metaphysical and cryptic, what ma mere really meant was “We originally thought our daughter was mentally handicapped because she ran like a duck and couldn’t catch a ball flying at her face.”
But luckily for me, I did just fine on all the tests that counted (pSATs, SATs). The fact that my motor skills left something to be desired – combined with the dangerous inability to pay attention for longer than 10 seconds (“Drew, car…car…watch out for the car!!!”) – just meant that I never had to learn some of those things that young girls usually grasp before they hit puberty. To wit: I do not know how to blow-dry my hair, dance, put on makeup that doesn’t make me look like a sad, barfy hooker-clown, or (most importantly) walk in high heels.
I just never learned how to balance myself precariously up on those tiny slivers that are your entire arch support, and since I trip enough as it is in my sneakers and flats (even flip-flops pose a problem, as do any shoes without backs), I never bothered to try. Wedges I can sort of do without twisting an ankle, but even that took practice.
So when my editors at Crushable told me my assignment was to wear high heels for 5 straight days without taking them off for anything except showers and bed, I imagined a whole weekend spent napping in the tub. Especially since being a novice at this sort of thing, I assumed that high heels kind of worked like sneakers: You could pick some up at a thrift store that were approximately your size, and then just sort of “wear them in.” Because I didn’t know any better, and because they were $5, these little numbers are what I chose for my experiment:
Adorable, right? Little did I know that it wasn’t the heels themselves that were going to cause me to break down in tears by the end of next night, clutching my bloody feet, but those innocuous little strappy things that held my legs down to these horrible contraptions that I swear to god came out of Saw 8 or something. But I’m getting ahead of myself. First, lets take a look at some real footage of me trying to walk my dog in heels! Hilarity ensues.