I think the love affair with heels started when I was pretty young, maybe thirteen or fourteen. My fashionable big girl cousins would pass down things they’d outgrown to me and my sisters, among which were a few pairs of slightly worn but serviceable heels.

Five inch heels.

Now I wore those heels every Sunday to church. I imagine I looked ridiculous: at that age I looked like a particularly ambitious telephone pole. I was 6’0″ in my stocking feet and probably 120 pounds soaking wet. My family and friends had the grace not to laugh in the face of my joy at being able to see everything from wherever I was in the church. And besides, I learned to walk in them pretty well after the first two years.

I remember thinking when I went to college, that I should probably put away the five inch heels. Not because I didn’t love them, just that the idea of walking a quarter mile in five inch heels, across broken asphalt, just didn’t appeal.

It was sad but I took it philosophically.

Now my college, once or twice a month would invite a guest lecturer and hold a mandatory lecture in the evening. Us students would always make a bit of a day of it, dress up fancy and head down. So the first lecture of my freshman year, I decided to wear my heels as a sort of last huzzah.

Except the thing was, at this lecture, a couple of guys I had made friends with, commented on the fact that I was 6’6″ in these babies. Which in 90% of cases I would accept. 95%, even.

Both of these guys said to me something along the lines of “You’re not allowed to wear those shoes anymore, because I don’t like it that you’re taller than me.”

Which, first of all, that’s nice.

But, the really key bit of info here, is that both of these guys were shorter than me– and not just in the heels– all the time. Several inches shorter. Like, they were both 5’8″ on a good day.

Remember, I’m 6’1″ on all days.

So I wore five inch heels to every single evening lecture for all four years.