I’ve lived my life since adolescence in heels. My personal motto: The higher the heel, the closer to God. But now that I have twins in tow, I fear flats are (silently, clicklessly) sneaking up behind me. I want to give in, really I do, but I just can’t give a few meddling moms the satisfaction. Their disapproving stares are egging me on and I’m clever enough to recognize the judgment peering from beyond those thin veils of admiration. When they say, “I don’t know how you do it” what they mean is, “You shouldn’t do it.”
Pre-pregnancy, I spent every waking moment in heels. I could run in them, jump in them and, by golly, even climb a mountain in them. They added height, elongated my legs and allowed my ass to defy gravity. To me, heels are heavenly and flats can go to hell.
While I was knocked up I would explain to naysayers that I walked more easily in heels (true), that my back hurt when I wore flats (also true), and that I never tripped while I was in heels (not entirely true). By my 8th month I moved on to wedges which gave me height with balance. At least I thought so until I fell on the sidewalk and cracked my head open. One ambulance ride, one panicked husband, seven stitches, 1,347 tears and 4 hours of fetal monitoring later, I conceded and bought a pair of leopard print flats. I even wore them a time or two, that is when I got the nerve to walk. It wasn’t shoes I distrusted, it was gravity.
And then came the “I told you so” comments ad nauseum. Had the “hell on heels” remarks been made in the form of advice instead of admonishment, maybe I would’ve been more apt to listen. I am, after all, nothing if not an eternal brat. Still, shouldn’t we be lifting each other up (like a lovely pair of Brian Atwoods) rather than stomping each other into the ground? Am I a bad mother because I refuse to wear deflated footwear? Really? I mean, really? To all of you other mothers, I’m sure this is the first of many mistakes I’ll make, so settle in, make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the show.
So here I sit, a new mom, wedged uncomfortably between the Devil and the deep blue sea. I gave in and added a pair of retro Converse low tops to my collection but they haven’t seen much action. The first time I wore them Husband said I looked dorky and minutes later I stepped in dog poo. (Coincidence? I think not.) Maybe it’s just for spite, but I’m off to the park with my two wee beasties…and two of the highest heels I can find.
Momzillas, please mind your own beeswax and stop the bullying. Mom-on-mom crime is never the answer.