There’s something instantaneously empowering and uplifting about sliding into a pair of stilettos. Flats are cute. Sneakers are hot. And may the good Lord rain a heap of special blessings upon the comfort-minded geniuses who invented flip-flops. But don’t nothing but nothing accentuate our natural, inborn, get ‘em girl sex appeal like a pair of sky-high skinnies. Slide a foot into them and they offer up an effortless boost of confidence and, unless you haven’t yet mastered the balancing act of remaining vertically upright and walking in them, a stroll that commands attention.
I am admittedly a shoe fiend. I love them across the gamut—except Crocs, clogs, and Uggs or any knockoff derivative thereof—but my heart percolates over heels. And guys love us in stilettos, which I don’t mind because I love stilettos, too. For different reasons, of course. I’m in awe of the colors, the little details, the designs that make them distinctively fabulous. They, on the other hand, are in awe simply by watching a woman delicately balance herself on a 4, 5, sometimes–if she’s real bad–6 or 7-inch stem hoisting her up off the ground. (Bonus points for those of us who can run for cabs and chase after children in them.)
Men can wear flats and sneakers themselves, but they’re mesmerized by the sexy sway of a woman in high heels. I know the staunchly feminist crowd argues against the importance of that, but I’m single and still fairly young, so it still has a modicum of importance to me. As an added bonus, through someone’s dogged and very important research, I’ve heard that heels not only make our legs look longer and sleeker, but they make our butts look like they’re sitting up higher and—this just in—they increase projection up to 25 percent. Even if you’re struggling to have some booty action, heels will plump and perk your backside.
Sans the validation of any dude or superficial physical accouterments, however, I love the way heels make me feel. I am a tower of power whenever I put them on.
Thirty minutes before a lunch meeting with a new client, I stood in front of my mirror checking and rechecking and checking some more for any egregious flaws that could possibly take center stage during the course of the conversation. You know how hard it is to stay focused on what somebody’s saying when they have a renegade eyebrow hair or some anonymous particle floating free on their tooth, so I was taking care not to become the unfortunate subject of somebody’s Facebook post or Twitter wisecrack. The woman I was meeting up with was looking for an editor for her first novel, and even though I’ve knocked out my fair share of similar projects, I was feeling a bit flustered. Then, like a magical ruby red slipper—except they were red microsuede—the heels I stepped into gave me a boost of can-do that sent me into that lunch hour with a sashay in my step and a conversation piece to break the ice with.
I don’t know what kind of shoes make you feel all drenched in your womanhood, and maybe shoes aren’t your thing at all, but I had to pause and celebrate the almighty towering stiletto.