I often lust after very high-heeled shoes when I’m browsing the internet – the temptation to make my legs look impossibly long, to be teetering over the rest of the world, to get that near-vertical arch to my foot that is so inexplicably sexy often threatens my good sense. But I know from experience that these skyscraper heels would all eventually kill me.
Because if a heel height exceeds that with which my chalk-boned ankles are comfortable, teetering becomes swaying and every step becomes lethal. In high-high heels, my ankles give way, my hamstrings and calf muscles tighten so much that it feels as though someone has placed a row of tennis balls down the backs of my legs. I do not look sexy when I walk in highest heels, I look like someone who has been folded into a suitcase and kept in the attic for three years. I look like someone who has only just learned to use their limbs.
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