So I was wearing these beautiful Claudia Ciuti wedge boots last night and was feeling darn good about myself, you know? I mean, dark brown studded suede, high-ish but comfortable wedge, long skirt, and even a little make-up. The wedges are about 2 1/2 inch high, which isn’t very high, of course, but if they weren’t wedges but itsy-bitsy-skinny heels, I couldn’t wear them at all. The wedge gives me some support–and officially turns me into a 6 ft 1&amp;quot; Amazon (yep, I’m already 5′ 10 1/2").
One of our companions, however, a teeny chain smoker with luscious locks, was wearing these towering heels–4 1/2" platforms, or perhaps even higher. I normally don’t admire high heels, but tend to frown upon them as being, you guessed it, painful and crippling instruments of torture for women. However, these particular heels were so beautiful I couldn’t help but compliment her. Turns out both of us had good taste: they were Prada, caramel-colored brogue-inspired style, with a mile-high heel which my passionate interlocutor said she needed for two reasons: one, she’s only 5’1, two, she gets back problems if she walks around in less than a 4&amp;quot; heel (3" on a bad day).
Now, I’d never heard of this, especially when coupled with the assertion that sneakers kill her back (really???), and even though I suspected a tiny hint of histrionics in the story (about 5 foot 1 inch of histrionics, to be precise), I chose to believe her; after all–who am I to tell people what they should fell comfortable in?
But, as I was walking home in my modest 2 1/2 wedges, which were still about 1 inch higher than the highest heels I’ve sported of late, oh, irony of ironies! Just as I was starting to wonder whether higher heels were maybe good for me after all–my back started to kill me.