Man vs. heels

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I hate stairs! Ok, so maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, I don’t normally hate them. But when you’re faced with the challenge of walking down a spiral staircase with oncoming traffic, in six-inch heels, it becomes a different story.

This is where I should probably mention, if you haven’t seen my bio below, I am a 24-year-old male and, I’ve always been fascinated by heels. A contraption so simple in design, with its seductive stiletto or wondrous wedge platform, can manipulate a right thinking person into becoming a swooning wonder, regardless of gender. Think about it, an on-looking person may swoon over the wearer because of the effect on the wearer’s body (hello killer legs and bottom!). And the wearer may swoon over a pair in an almost obsessive way (I mention no names. Carrie Bradshaw and Manolo Blahnik). But I digress.


So me being me, I’ll give anything a go (within reason), thought I’d channel my inner Yanis Marshall and member of Kazaky and try it out for myself. I mean if they can do full blown choreography in them, then I can do a whole day at uni, right?


At 8:30am I strapped on my size eight, six-inch wedge lace-up heels, stood-up for the first time and proceeded to hit my head on my attic room ceiling, not the best start to day. Once the stars had left my vision, I caught a glimpse of my legs in my skinny jeans in the mirror facing me. Dear god they’re so taut, the calf muscles were toned like never before. In my deluded cocky state, I thought to myself “now I know what all the fuss is about, I got this covered”. So with my slippers in my bag (just in case I fell over and hurt my ankle, you can never too sorry) I left for uni.

The first thing I’m faced with was some stairs (Oh. God!), three flights and a dogleg later I was outside, my cockiness left in my room. My normal morning walk to the bus station takes three minutes tops, whilst busting-a-move to any one named diva that sums up my morning mood. My mood to strut and sashay to uni this morning can only be Beyoncé. Half way there and Beyoncé had left my ears and I wasn’t even at the bus bay. The heels had stunted my usual walking speed by half! But I remained calm in the face of adversity and continued. As schoolgirls passed me with faces that can only be described as resembling Edvard Munch’s The Scream, I finally made it, nearly three Beyoncé tracks later with pulsating feet.

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A thought did cross my mind when tentatively strutting my way for the bus, the pavements had so many potholes and dips in them, I feel a letter to the council coming to sort out this little issue out. I mean get your heel caught in one of them and it’s good night Vienna.

My morning was filled with gorping stares and sniggering. In my third lesson of the day, I would be thrown into the heel baptism of fire. Three flights of stairs at the height of the dinner rush and trust me when I say this, heels and onrushing hungry students DO NOT MIX! I felt like a Weeble in the middle of the besiegement, rocking back and forth against the hoards as I made my way up to the top floor.

The afternoon throbbed by, moving from lesson to lesson became slower, and my respect and admiration grew with every passing hour. I had my female friends say how they couldn’t do a whole day, and “now you see how much pain we go through on a night out”.

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My final lesson couldn’t finish quick enough; my feet yearned to be flat on the ground. Getting my legs under tables became a recurring issue, where I resembled what could only be described as tall person squeezed into a vintage Mini. My strut-like walk to the bus home, had developed into more a hobble similar to Frankenstein’s Igor. I persevered through the pain on the bus journey home aka. a sardine tin, due to having to stand-up, the ultimate in heel testing I do believe. The walk home I looked like a walker from The Walking Dead with my feet trailing behind me.

Arriving home I was faced with the inevitable three flights of stairs, my newest nemesis. The meeting was not dissimilar to Goldfinger’s “so we meet again Mr Bond!”, but only with me and a trio of stairs. My room has never looked so inviting, and removing a pair of shoes has never been so welcomed in my 24 years of life. I imagine it to be like a woman removing her bra after an exhausting day, THE RELIEF!

The next time my feet meet high heels, will be the next time The Rocky Horror comes to town, and trust me I’m in no rush.

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