On my closet floor stands the most exquisite pair of emerald green boots. They’re one-of-a-kind vintage 1970s. They were a steal on Etsy. They also have three-inch heels, so I almost never wear them.
It’s not that these boots are uncomfortable; it’s that they’re not practical. And Halifax has the most practical sense of fashion in all of Canada. Here lies my dilemma.
There is no reason to wear heels in Halifax. This city is a walking city, a biking city and a busing city. This city has rain, snow, ice and salt. This city also has an anti-heel-height attitude.
About 90 per cent of me – I’ve calculated – embraces that attitude. Heels are shallow accessories for all the height they add.
They’re also restricting. Try climbing Citadel Hill on a whim, or the Wave on the waterfront, in stilettos. Not to mention they sound ridiculous – sneak attacks are out with those clackers on.
The only practical use for a pencil-thin point on a shoe is as a defence against a rapist. And even then, how do you run away?
In larger metropolises, sky-scraping shoes are a status symbol. Strut down the streets of Toronto in Christian Louboutins and you might as well be Henry Sugar. Heels – such as the pair in my closet – are also sexy if worn with the right swagger. Teetering on tiptoe is surprisingly seductive, but ironically vulnerable.
In Halifax, heels aren’t just impractical – they’re also an ego trip for your feet. A woman who wears heels here, in a city where no one wears heels, shouldn’t be surprised when locals stare. It seems as if she is elevating herself above other Haligonians.
But if she wears them in New York, where everyone wears heels, she would be an average Jolene. The dynamic of those extra few inches between the pavement and your sole can be distilled down to one thing: power. You don’t need a Spice Girl to tell you that.
But part of me – about 10 per cent – adores that three-inch boost. I don’t know quite why. I’m happy with my five feet four inch height. I wear flat skimmers or boots every day. I know no one’s walking behind me with a tape measure. Yes, the weather’s fine down here.
I’m ready to size up my admiration for arch-aching shoes to a desire for sex, power or beauty – all the things society holds so dear. But it all sounds too high strung for me.
I’ll stick to flats. They come in emerald green. And I can run away from rapists, which is more than a vulnerable vixen in stilettos can say.
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