fun · Motherhood · Personal development · sacrifice

Hot Heels

There’s something about heels that makes a woman feel good. Whether or not we look good is an entirely different matter. However, the fact remains that tall heels, kitten heels, stiletto heels, cone heels, spool heels, chunky heels – whatever your preference, heels make us feel sh*t hot. For there’s something about slipping into a pair of heels that instantly transforms a woman. From skivvy to sexy, elephant to elegant, mum to MILF. No matter who she becomes, the woman in heels has elevated herself to a whole new level. And she means business.

Forget practicality. The high-heeled mum hobbling through the playground with a kid on each arm, isn’t playing practical. Forget comfort. The stilett0-studded woman teetering through Tesco pushing a fully-loaded trolley, isn’t concerned with comfort either. And don’t even mention the forecast. Come rain or shine, sleet or snow, the hardcore heelie pays no attention to weather proofing. Peep-toe, closed-toe, sling-back, strappy-back. Who cares? She feels good, so she looks good. Simple.

It will come as no surprise then, that the very thought of donning a pair of heels for the first time in nine months is making me feel hot. Very hot. But not sexy hot. More like hot-flush hot. For a start, those red whore-heels, remember those? Well they’re no longer going to glide on with a satisfying squelch. And they most certainly aren’t going to fly off with a fleeting flick of the foot either. Instead, simply to squeeze two swollen, sweaty feet in without the promise of a fleshy overhang, would be miraculous. Secondly, those navy mock-crocks, fabulous with a pair of skinnies, just don’t work with the post-pregnancy look of baggy joggers, a sick-stained tee and an over-sized cardi. But more pertinently, I’m just not ready. That’s right. I just can’t bring myself to pull out a pair of heels and put them on. Not even for a second. In fact, even just to look at the row upon row of sleek soles and pristine points makes me want to cry. Is this mad? No. Apparently this is normal.

But what is it about heels that is making me over heat? Why am I frumping it in flats, lolling around in loafers and burying myself beneath brogues, down-trodden and depressed? And why the hell do I feel shoe-envy towards the glamorously gallant girl in the playground, who can pull herself (and her kids) together with the click of two heels? Forget practicality. Forget comfort. Forget the forecast even. It’s no more about all of that for me, than it is for the catwalk-mum and the Tesco trolley-dolly. Instead, by association to a former, more “adult-friendly” life, heels now feel incongruous, awkward and altogether wrong. Once a girl’s best friend – fanciful, flattering, flirty, they now serve as a sharp reminder of who I simply am not. There is something very real about feeling the heel thing. And by default, if you’re not feeling it, the effects are quite literally sole-destroying.

Now, whether the heel dictates how you feel or how you feel dictates the heel, I’ll let you be the judge. But one thing is for sure, I can’t wait for the time to come. The big day when I feel ready to step up and out, into my old self again. It’s likely to be a special occasion. A birthday or an anniversary [if he’s lucky]. And on that day, I’ll dig out my most outrageous pair. There will be no going back. But it won’t matter, because I’ll feel high and I’ll feel hot.

 

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