The Problem with Heels
Sunday, September 24, 2006 at 11:12PM 
Ah, broken heels. I’m really good at them, REALLY good. It is too depressing to think of how many beautiful shoes have gone to pieces on me. Literally. It always seems that the more expensive the pair, the more likely they are to have heels that snap right off. My Nine West knock-arounds never have any problems, but the moment I spend good money on special shoes, I know the odds are against me. There were those Dior pumps, the laser-cut Louboutins I found at Jeremy's, the silver Kenneth Cole sandals I loved so much they finally quit...and too many others to mention. Sadly, shoes are a bit like cars in that they're never quite the same once they've been smashed. Even after careful reparation by the most tender cobbler with polish-stained fingers, they're never quite as balanced, as sturdy (what?,) or as lighthearted. Perhaps they too have the same deep-seeded sadness that the wearer has, as they now carry the memory of that precarious moment when they let you down, failed in their perfect Italian craftsmanship, and decided to snappity-snap.
My most recent break came on my sexy, saucy, gloriously wonderful Vuitton Cherry Blossom Satin pumps. Somewhere between the Asian-fusion and the Kamikaze shots at my friend’s bachelorette party, my shoes were sacrificed on the altar of style. Perhaps I need more practice getting in and out of stretch limousines? This break is so heart-wrenching (don't they look like they're bleeding?) that I'm not even sure I want to attempt the repair. Is there a cardiologist in the house? I'm totally heart-broken.
In Hotel Bemelmans, Ludwig Bemelmans describes the carnage of heels after coming out parties in New York in the 1920’s and 1930’s:
“A waiter walked around to look for forgotten fans, pocketbooks, gloves, and heels – a job I often assigned to old Gustl because among his other weaknesses he confessed to one for ladies’ heels, which he liked to feel in his pocket.”
It's a romantic image - the detritus left by the youthful zeal running like a whirling dervish through a hotel ballroom. I realize that while there is something charming about an old man collecting castaway heels in a desk drawer somewhere, there is also something not only a bit odd about it (latent fetishism anyone?) but a bit unfair. Did these heels ever get returned to live again on their Charleston-stepping feet? How many debutantes had their hearts broken because their missing heels made their beautiful party shoes irreparable?
I wonder how many heels were found in the fountains after all of Jay Gatsby’s mad parties on West Egg?
It does make me wonder though, are shoes truly not made any better than they were eighty years ago? Or is it just me? I am thinking that I need to re-learn how to walk again. A friend suggested that I need to step more on my toes, or the balls of my feet when walking in heels – um, isn’t that what I’m doing already?
Maybe I should just wear toe shoes.
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