Well, most often a foot, and in lore an old lady who had so many children she didn’t know what to do. But I’m kicking it up a notch.
The above is what I finally, FINALLY put up for sale on eBay yesterday. I got them maybe ten years ago and wore them but a handful of times because, let’s face it, they’re stilts and I’ve never been to clown college. That’s my foot in the picture–I know, I have no arch and my toes are freakishly finger-like–but I was sitting down when my husband took it. Had I been standing, the pressure of my entire 155 pounds would have been concentrated on the balls of my foot. The heel is four inches high, a troubling fact mitigated only by the 3/4″ platform in the front.
These shoes were exactly as nutty when I bought them pre-Formerly, and I have gotten saner. Still, it took me years to bid them adieu, and there’s a small part of me that hopes no one bids on them. They are a cross between Candies and motorcycle boots, which to me is the ultimate in tough slutwear. I have never been tough, and I’ve long since reclaimed and neutralized the word “slut,” thus rendering it meaningless, but still, who can argue with these? They’re Frye. I love Frye.
But more important, they are symbols of a time when form was way more important than function, when no one expected me to be anywhere on time, or to have to walk at all, for that matter, and when I wasn’t married to someone who is only an inch or two taller than I am. These shoes, while not made for walking, were made for kicking off and dancing all night, then staggering home at 4 AM to pass out without washing your makeup off.
They make much better symbols than shoes, don’t they?