There are more than a few blisters in between my toes presently. Huge ones on the inside of my big toe and whatever the one next to it is called. Is it a pointer toe? Knowing it’s Christian name doesn’t seem to matter given that it’s wrapped in Band-Aids that have been carefully put on so as not to attach themselves to intentionally black toenails. Hoofing it fifteen miles in a day makes me sound like a real trooper on the internet… but the reality is I gave myself shin splits and possibly did something expensively bad to my left Achilles tendon. There’s a lump where a lump ought not to be, except it’s in my foot instead of my boob so for that I am (mostly) thankful.

Rationally, I know all of these things as I unpack my “expensive” heels–a pair from Michael Kors I treated myself to over the summer. I put them on and magically the pain is gone, though there’s a good chance once I’m hauling ass to catch my train into Manhattan tonight my feelings on the matter will have changed. I’ve never worn these shoes for more than a few hours at a time, not to mention a whole evening with walking and stairs and whatever the fuck else normal girls do in stilettos. I feel it deserves mention that the shoes in question do have a platform; I would never buy heels without one now that I know all the good they can do.

Piles of clothes have been pulled from the closet and are strewn across the room as I struggle to pick an outfit that deviates from my comfortably boring jeans, Chucks and cute shirt combo. The air is a bit chillier tonight than it had been the first few times I went out and after much debate I settle on a dress with tights. Smarter, boozier me would be downing half of pint of whiskey before heading out the door instead of adding a sweater and leather jacket to my ensemble–but I gave up booze and picked up weights instead. Weights I can’t even use for another few days, given the foot injuries I managed to inflict upon myself while sober. If I had been drunk I would’ve just called a cab and been done with it–who said people make better decisions when not under the influence, anyway? They’ve clearly never spent any time “saving cab money” by walking with me.

I make it to the train and up the stairs from the subway without incident, from there to the bar without falling–meaning it isn’t too obvious that I don’t know how to walk in these things. While all the horrible possibilities revolving around heel-related injuries dance through my head, one foot places itself in front of the other and there may have even been a slight sashay to my walk. That last bit may not have happened as much as I would like to think, but seeing how it’s my first night in heels I feel like the newbie moves are okay. My toes go numb a few times from putting too much weight on one foot at a time, but otherwise I feel fine. By the end of the night I’m really feeling it; whatever it is that keeps women smashing their feet into shoes reminiscent of the ones Barbie permanently reshaped her arch for.

Sure, I’m close to 6’4″ with these things strapped on and the likelihood of any noteworthy dudes trying to say hello plummets once they stand next to me (in comparison to their height-related self esteem issues soaring, that is.) The view of the room changes so much with this added few inches, I can see everyone standing in the back of the bar waiting to take a piss and I notice additions to our party as they come to the front door. I could get used to the air up here, the weird otherworldly sexy thing I feel like I might have going on. Men are looking at me, their eyes having to slide sideways and up a bit to try to make eye contact. The rush I’m getting off of this is disgusting; better than chocolate and probably more flattering to my waistline.

Forget cocaine, I’m on some high-heeled trip into the abyss. Don’t be surprised if my Tweets become little more than talk of platforms, stilettos and varying complaints about the state of my Achilles tendon.

*****

If you’re into feet or shoes or just spoiling chicks off the internet, I have sweet heels on my Amazon wishlist. I have PO Box & will totally snap photos of me looking fly in the footwear you send my way.

Holler.

It’s not for lack of trying on my part–I’ve marched through my house in them for hours, going up and down the stairs trying not to break my ankle while swaying my ass seductively. All that practice and I never make it past the front door in them.

I’ve worn heels in public once, ever. It was the longest night of my life. The experience can easily be recounted: awkward, looming, giantess Julene frightened the. I tripped both up and down a flight of stairs and some dude called me a “huge bitch” a la Deuce Bigolo: Male Gigolo. Thanks to him I will forever equate my time in heels to that one particular scene. That movie really sucked, by the way.

When I look at photos of a girl in a pair of stilettos or cute little ankle booties it’s hard not to admire what those little footsy death traps can do to improve a girl’s shape from the waist down. But fuck man… they’re so uncomfortable. Besides, the average dude is weirded out enough by the fact that we’re close in height. Few guys have a desire to spend a night out with their lady when she’s towering over them by several inches–and I’m okay with that. When I think of dudes that want to see me in heels, BDSM gimps are the first thing that come to mind. That’s not the stuff dreams are made of.

I spent years thinking that maybe it was something I would adjust to; an acquired taste like wine or Indian food. Except it’s not: I’ve worn them around the house for hours on end and never come any closer to feeling like anything other than a newborn deer while wearing them.

I don’t want to give up on you, heels. I know that 2010 will not be the year of stilettos… but I refuse to allow it to be a year of wife beaters and Chucks (an apparently loathsome dress-down habit of mine) either. That’s why I’m thinking of buying these Dolce Vita black booties:

These are the make-me or break-me heels. If I can’t walk in these, I’m giving up and wearing flats for the rest of my life. Cross your fingers I figure out how to walk in these little black death traps without breaking my ankle. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll let you guys all sign my cast.

Real talk: in this book this little girl piggie is going shopping for her mom & picks out all this delicious stuff (like pie and muffins and other carb-ridden goodies) that she’s going to buy. Except her mom only gave her $1 and instructed her to buy a loaf of bread. Right now I see these white leather extremely limited edition Converse and I think to myself, “fuck me, I want those.” And in the back of my head I hear, “but Julenie did not have $150 to spend frivolously, she had $15 and plans to go to the museum.”

You have to admit, they are fucking gorgeous. Not to mention they go on sale tomorrow… ugh! (I wear a size 7 mens, potential benefactors.)