"Why do you insist on wearing those outrageous high heels?" the woman asks. I cross my legs and admire the bulge of my calf exaggerated by the arch of my shoe, and stare down at her conservative little boat-shaped slip-on that gives her foot the illusion of floating away down a shallow creek like a withered fall leaf. I sip on a sweaty Scotch and reply warmly, "When I walk out the door in a good pair of heels, and I'm not referring to some kitschy crap that you can buy on a trip to Frederick's of Hollywood but a really solid set of heels from Manolo or Prada Chanel Clergerie, I never feel vulnerable, there's no time for any weakness, I feel focused strong secure, my stride is potent and no one hassles me when I'm standing on the corner hailing a cab, you'd better believe I'm the first fare he'll throw on his brakes for, you put the two of us just a few yards away, he'll pass you right by. Why? Because I demand respect and my heels back me up -- so don't go worrying about me, I've never been better, care for a cigar?"Afterwards, I ripped the page out of the magazine and kept it for posterity's sake. Ladies, I get it...
Source: Bernhard S & Leibovitz, A (1996, February 26), Why High Heals? The New Yorker.
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