Monday, April 26, 2010

She's A Heel

I guess if we were going to go by typical woman's magazine standards, I fall woefully short in a number of categories. For example, I've never been in a tanning salon. I've been to dance clubs only a handful of times, and each time, I spent more time complaining about the $7.50 drinks and trying to avoid the greased-up men with their shirts unbuttoned to their sternums than I did actually, like, dancing. I consistently forget to wear deodorant, which, combined with my already hairy pits, can lead to some, um, authentic smells. Hell, I can barely bring myself to brush my hair most days, leaving it a bed-headed mess that is decidedly not artfully composed like a fashion shoot. My bed head is 100% legitimate, complete with little baby dreadlocks and, like, pencils. I am basically a feral child.

But I feel like, if we're going solely by woman's magazine standards, the most egregious crime I'm committing is that of Not Honouring The Shoe.

Magazines like Cosmopolitan and Elle and all those other glossy peans to feminine fashion are constantly displaying footwear that just makes me freak. Not in a good way; not in the way I'm supposed to. I dislike high heels, and I sort of hate shoes in general. I know, as the owner of a vagina, I'm supposed to be all breathless and impressed when it comes to high heels, but I am just so not.

Along with the glossies, I blame stupid Carrie Bradshaw and her posse of fashionable whores. If that stupid show hadn't built a shrine to stilettos, many of the young women who have fallen for the romance of the high heel would be wearing flats today. I understand the allure: heels lengthen the leg and tighten up muscles that would, apparently, would otherwise be sagging and repulsive. And they come in fancy, fancy styles. So I understand. They make things nice. But they don't speak my language, you know?

Look, here's the thing. I'm five foot one on a good day, and I'm probably breaking some law that says short girls need to buck up and wear heels. But I don't really find them all that appealing. When it comes to aesthetics, I'm not really interested in the high-gloss side of things. I like things a little dirtier, a little rusty, and actually, like, practical. The men I like are generally not cut from a slick, European cloth. They wear toques. They wear work boots. I find that sexy, because it's not a lot of maintenance. I give what I get, and like I said, I never brush my hair. I am draft beer. I am Sorel boots. And I like that.

It's not like I have zero interest in footwear. One of my ex-boyfriends was always droning on about his Vans high-tops, and I still sort of have a little crush on Vans because of it. I myself love Campers, because they're interesting without being insane. I'll also admit, in my dark, oily heart, to loving stripper shoes: they're like Barbie shoes for grownups, which is always sort of fun! And, like my mom, I'm sort of a sucker for boots. Winter boots, rain boots, motorcycle boots...yeah, I'm interested.

I just don't run with a high-heeled crowd. ("Not that they're running anywhere," she said snidely.) The men I like are probably interested in heels - many men are, and it's sort of a biological no-brainer - but they can also see past a pretty pair of pumps into a different kind of sexy. Sexy ain't about a five-inch heel; it's about a smile and a swagger.

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