Well-heeled

I don’t know who invented high heels. I’m not ambitious enough to find out. I do know, whoever he is, I want his soul condemned to the furthest, fieriest, most painful forsaken pit in the deepest part of hell.

I use the masculine “he” very deliberately. I can see a group of smelly unshaven cavemen sitting around this newfangled gadget called “fire,” scratching themselves, ogling the women who are busily picking up their furry foot covers from all over the cave and collecting all the wooly mammoth ribs they’d strewn all over the floor.

“How do you think we can slow them down?” wonders Og.

“I know!” says Urg. “Let’s put their heels up on little tiny sticks!”

They most likely had to hold the first woman down to place them on her feet. There was probably a moment when she attempted to kick them in a most vulnerable place only to fall over, confirming to the men the brilliance of their fashion epiphany.

But then, when she finally stood up again, they “oooh”-ed and “aaah”-ed in admiration of the tiny sticks on her feet. Then they offered to pick up their furry foot covers themselves forever more, take the Oglets on the next saber tooth tiger hunting foray and let her have the entire outside of the tiger for herself if only she would leave the tiny sticks on her heels.

“Throw in dinner at spOgo’s and it’s a deal,” she says and history is made.

She probably found out what most women do: heels make your legs look thinner, a big plus if you’re shaped like a five-foot Oompah-Loompah (a la Willie Wonka) like me. That being said, I haven’t been en pointe for many years now.

There was a time when I spent the entire day in heels, kicking them off under my desk so my feet could enjoy brief moments in a natural position before contorting them once again to make my way to the copier. I had the obligatory brown pair, white pair, beige pair, and, for after Memorial Day and before Labor Day, a white pair. And the purses to match, of course. (I remember applying for a job as a reporter dressed in a navy blue suit with matching heels and purse. The editor told me years later he had to give me the job because I looked so much like Lois Lane.)

Here’s a secret: Most people think I left the formal work environment for the noble causes of motherhood and homeschooling. Actually I left because of the wardrobe.

To me it’s a matter of survival. For instance, as Dirtman and I sat in a rather (for us) upscale restaurant this weekend, I was secure in the fact that if Godzilla broke through the front wall, I was the only woman there who could run out the back door without having to stop to take my heels off. Because, in spite of what the movies show, you cannot outrun prehistoric monsters if you are wearing high heels.

Just watch female dog show handlers. They know that if you want to move like a person, you can’t be perched on toothpicks. Okay, they don’t exactly lead the list of fashionistas, but they are strutting out there in public. That’s what women are supposed to look like when they walk. The fact that the only warm body next to them is a dog is beside the point.

Besides, dogs don’t leave their furry foot covers all over the cave.