Ladies and gentlemen, I have a very pressing announcement I need you all to hear. Pay close attention now:
I’m tall.
I know. I was shocked too. Luckily, some stranger on the street finally made me aware of my condition, and I am now fully informed of my vertical dominance in comparison the average human being.
Alright, enough with the sarcasm. I’ll admit it’s been honed over 25 years of people acting genuinely freaked out by my height. In grade 7, my teacher felt the need to take time out of gym class (already my nightmare) to in say (in front of the whole darn class) “Julie, you never stop growing!”. In grade 9, the first boy I thought was cute nicknamed me “Long Arms”. Yes – Long Arms. He wasn’t flirting. Just this year, as I was about to exit the convenience store, the clerk yelled after me “you’re tall!” – as if he had been surpressing the urge to comment all through our transaction, and just couldn’t let me leave the store without saying something.
At the ripe old age of 25, I’ve made great strides in fully embracing all 6’1 of me. I get to help old ladies at the supermarket with the crackers on the top shelf, I can spot anyone in a crowd, and I rarely have a bad view at the movie theatre, yet there are still times when I feel just a little like an ogre. But recently, I took a monumental step in silencing the gawkers with pitchforks. I thrifted heels. Heels! Now before you scoff at my new favourite footwear, I need to make something explicitly clear: I’ve never worn anything with even the slightest heel. I’ve neglected winter boots in favour of frostbitten toes because the tread was too clunky, I volunteered to be Sporty Spice because I knew I couldn’t rock the the platforms, and I still silently rejoice every time I read ballet flats and gladiator sandals will hang around for another season. This is a big step.
They may only be kitten heels, all of two inches, but gosh, I love them. I feel as though a great door has been opened to me, and the world is one big hallway just waiting for me to stomp down. I reached this conclusion: people are going to stare, they may even comment, but they’re going to do that whether I’m 6’1 or 6’3, so why shouldn’t I get to wear cute shoes like everybody else? I wore these bad boys OUT IN PUBLIC yesterday, with this lovely new spring thrift – a vintage Lori Anne dress ($4!) and a made-in-Italy clutch I thrifted last month.
I have no practice walking in these, so I clomp around like a t-rex, but so far, it’s worth it. I have only one request if you pass me on the street: Please, don’t stare, and if you must say something, let it be about my shoes.