Growing up in the Philippines, I towered over all the kids my age. Heck, I towered over kids older than me. From 1st grade until my senior year of high school, I was always the one at the back of the line, in the back row. I was always the girl who played Prince Charming in our all-girls' school plays. I was glad I wasn't short, but I felt that people who told me I was lucky to be tall had no idea what it was like. I slouched as much as I could. Heels? Hah!
When I moved to the US, I finally made the transition from being tall to just above average (I'm 5 feet, 8 inches tall and the average height of females in the US is 5 feet, 3.8 inches), but I stuck to my flats. At most I'd wear 2-inch heels.
After 17 years of living here, I've finally gotten to the stage where I've lost the slouch and stand as straight as I can. I love the look of heels, but I can't wear them. My mother, my sister, and other vertically-challenged people in my life can dance in stilettos and stand in heels all day long, but they just make my feet hurt.
But even at 39, I want to wear high heels like the grownups do, so a couple of months ago I bought the tallest pair of heels I've ever owned. They're 4 inches high, and I'm literally on my tippytoes when I wear them. I wore them a couple of nights ago, when Alfie and I went out to celebrate our 11th wedding anniversary.
I could barely walk. I held Alfie's hand in a death grip, convinced I would twist or break an ankle before the evening was over. Within 10 minutes, I could feel a blister developing on one toe. But I padded the toe, and gradually my hesitant little steps lengthened to something I hope resembled a confident walk. I did feel confident. I even towered over Alfie a bit (or so I like to think), but I didn't care. My heels and I rocked.
Maybe I'll wear them again next year.
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