I hate high heels

I absolutely hate with an absolute passion… high heels. I mean I would love to be able to walk in them but I can’t. I despise their existence and the fact I can’t walk in them. I’m like a constipated ET shuffling along trying my hardest not to fall over and break my neck. Every time I’ve worn a pair of heels, all I imagine is the slow and painful death I’m about to endure when my ankle gives way and I tumble down, ankles snap in half and I end up in hospital half dead. Dramatic I know but that’s how I see it.

Don’t get me wrong. I like the look of high heels. I think they’re pretty, elegant, sexy. There’s something about a woman wearing a pair of high heels that can make them feel sexy and desirable with an added kick of attitude. I appreciate their beauty and envy the millions of women who can walk, jump, hop, skip and run in a pair of 6 inch heels. I’ve seen my sister run in a pair of heels with my niece attached to her hip when it was icy outside. That amazes me but I can only watch in horror whenever that moment occurs.

I’m quite tall. I’m not statuesque and definitely am not someone who should be owned by a runway but wearing heels for me, it’s like torture. I prefer flats and most importantly I prefer my Converse. Chuck Taylor I salute you. When I go out, I generally wear jeans or skinnies much to the annoyance of my friends and family.

The idea of wearing a dress with a pair of heels makes me shiver. I don’t really want to look like the Terminator walking round stiffly whilst trying to dance to the sound of the music blasting in my ears in a club. Keep it real, keep on no heels. Safer that way, just saying. Comfort for me is key, why would you want to be uncomfortable when you’re out? I want to enjoy myself not feel achy and boring because I had to sit out that dance to the Macarena because my feet are two bruised balloons attached to achy legs. Feeling miserable all night in a pair of heels is not the reality I want to be living in.

I own 3 pairs of heels. 3, they are:

The knee-high boots

These devishly annoying high heels I bought in Topshop when I was 19, in a hopeless bid to appear more sexy to my then dumbass boyfriend have been a permanent fixture in my shoe cupboard. I bought them to ensure that whenever I did wear whatever hideous outfit I deemed fashionable at the time, these bad boys would kick out the attitude and turn on the god-damn they’re sexy! factor. I once wore them to a party and wanted to stab someone within an hour. The pain, the agony, the excruciating feeling of hell pressed onto the balls of my feet caused all sorts of havoc and I really didn’t enjoy that party as much as everyone else. I still own them and they sit very prettily in my cupboard in my room. The last time I wore them I dressed as Poison Ivy and managed a shuffle to the pub before complaining I couldn’t cope and swapped them for my dollies.

The mary-janes

4 inches of heel power right there. Granted that’s not that high but wowser, feet hurt after a bit in them and don’t get me started on the calves. I still have them because I like them. I’m a dweeb like that.

The 3 inch ankle boot heel

I bought these for my birthday party and wore them the whole evening. Massively proud of myself. My friend Manie carried me home after though.  I now can’t wear them at all. Damn you heels.

As much as I own these 3 pairs of heels, I’m still hanging on tightly to my Converse and to my flats. As much as my rant here has probably gone unnoticed by all, I would like to flag up the hazards of wearing high heels.

Over and out.


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