High Heels and Hills

So I had a 3rd date with a chap I really like. I mean really like. And I made the most rookie of all errors: buoyed by excitement and an overinflated desire to impress, I wore heels. I know. Even now, writing this, I’m shaking my head at my foolish naivety. I’m 37 and overweight. You know this; I know this. Turns out my ankles, calves and knees also know this.

Bath is a stunningly beautiful place to live. It’s picture-book perfect. But this includes the obligatory Georgian cobbled streets. It’s also set in a valley, surrounded by lush green hills. Everything is either uphill or downhill. There are no flat roads. None. And I’m in 3 ½ inch heels, on cobbled streets, and I’m woefully out of practice.

Imagine a pig on stilts. Wobbling. Imagine trying to disguise the pain and trepidation you feel as you tentatively try to ensure that your knees don’t dislocate with every step (because they don’t appreciate the need to defy the laws of physics in order to gain a man’s approval). Imagine having also to mask the knowledge that gargantuan blisters are forming across the back of your feet as you struggle to match his faster, longer stride. There’s only so much a broad smile and light-hearted laughter can hide.

At least the fact that my eyes were watering made them sparkle endearingly…

Why do we do it? I think I was under the pathetic illusion that wearing heels would fool him into thinking I was taller than my 160cms, that my legs would look longer, and that the elongated frame would help to slim me down. But none of this matters when you’re walking like Bambi on ice.

I’m not sure why I agreed to move to a bar on the opposite side of town to the restaurant. My eyes watered so much during the journey that I washed away any potential advantage my make-up was giving me. I’m probably more like a panda than a pig on stilts at this point.

But you know what? He doesn’t notice. Or at least, he’s gentleman enough to pretend not to notice. And he holds my hand. Whether this is a sign of affection or a subtle steadying mechanism I’m not sure, but I’d like to think the former.

The only available seats in the bar were right next to a bunch of skinny, tanned women who all still had their make-up intact. And they were choosing to stand in their heels, clearly unaffected by blisters, dislocated knees and calf strain. They were clearly heel-wearing professionals. The intimidating force of their proximity was not lost on me.

But my date seemed oblivious. Perhaps the pity vote is a card I should play more often. There was kissing, a fourth date was planned, and as I half limped, half crawled to the taxi rank my eyes began to water afresh. Not from pain. And not because of the new-found fluttering in my bosom. But because of the dawning realisation that my flat, fluffy slippers and a pack of Compeed* were just ten short minutes away.

*blister plasters