Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Miuccia, my love affair with you is a painful one. It looks so good but baby, it hurts so bad.

Whoever invented high heels was a genius. Heels are flattering, confidence boosting, and elevate women's legs to art form.

That same person was also a sadistic pig. Standing for hours in three, often four inches plus can really grate on your feet, knees, legs, back; absolutely everything, in fact. If you see a high-heeled woman doing a lot of standing or sitting still she isn't necessarily being a snob, she could be the victim of fashion torture. Not to mention the ridiculous styles that come from out of left field every few years that everyone just has to wear, like the pointed toe shoe. If I was meant to wear pointy shoes, I would either have V-shaped feet or fly a broom.

As I write this, I am wearing the Miu Mius that were a part of my super grand 30th birthday shopping ode to myself. My Mius are by far the most sublime footwear to ever grace my closet. 4.5 inches of heel on tanned, distressed buffalo hyde strappy sandals, two ropes criscrossing my arches and showing off just the right amount of toe cleavage. They are resplendent, they are dazzling, they transform my piggies into exotic, mysterious objets. If it is possible for a non-fetishist to become thoroughly perverted by her own feet, it happens to me with my Mius.

One small problem: I can't exactly walk in them.

Well I can *walk* in them, don't be silly, it's that I can't walk properly, normally, functionally in them. Miuccia Prada designed these shoes in the darndest of ways: absolutely no platform underneath the sole, not a scrap, and not a breadth of rubber or gription of any kind. Same for the bottom of the heel. While I can understand that such practicalities, um, indescribably *mar* great fashion, it also sends reality straight through the fucking window when you actually try to use what you've bought.

Take me, for instance. I do not have a billionaire sugar daddy with fast cars and door to door service at every establishment on earth. Unfortunately, and who would have thought I'd be wistful for this, I no longer have bleach blonde Salmon barking militant instruction while I trundle the runway. "That's right girls! Right! Left! Right! Less crotch please, we are maw-dells, not whores!"

All I have is myself, my feet and some great shoes that at present, stiffen me up like a hot dog. It's like trying to walk on your tiptoes with skinny bricks glued to your heels. The long way up. Being that I'm already vertically gifted, those 4.5 inchers mammoth-ize me so greatly that there's no room for error.

So, while it's all nice and cute to just sit here and swing my strappy sandalled feet around, admiring their fine form and lustre, I do actually want to wear these shoes in a few weeks and so, practice practice practice!

I think I've gotten better. The first time around, I made it around my room with the gait of a wounded sloth. Just today, I cleared the basement most gracefully while balancing Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on my head. Small steps, that's the trick. Maybe in time I'll attempt a snap turn, but for now I'm just grateful I'm standing.

And in my Mius, stand tall I do. 6'2 1/2 to be exact. My goal for that day is to be the tallest in the room. I have a wedding to attend.