It is a myth that the primary purpose of high heels is to lend height to shorter women.  At 5’9”, I’ve never let stature stand in the way of statement when it comes to choosing my footwear.  I know that 3-inch heels pop me up to the 6-foot mark, a measure my mother would tell you is reserved for the likes of male basketball players and Yetis, and to be avoided by women if at all possible.  But there is something so captivating about the feel of a heel, how it lengthens the leg and gives one a new perspective on the world.  So height be damned, I guild my collection, stored lovingly beneath my bed as a Manhattan studio apartment affords little room for collections of anything. 

New York sidewalks seem to agree with my mother.  And they seem to want to teach me a lesson.

I sprained my ankle on a sunny July day, engaged in the simple act of walking when a sidewalk crack captured the slim 3-inch heel of my round toe pumps just long enough to throw me off balance – a lifelong klutz, it doesn’t take much – and my flailing attempts to remain upright took their toll on my right ankle as it rolled in a way that nature surely didn’t intend.  The pain was severe, but I had things to do and people to see, so I hobbled into a cab and continued about my day, albeit in flip flops.  It wasn’t until later that evening when I really looked at the overstuffed doughnut that sat where my ankle used to be that I admitted a trip to the doctor was in order. 

The podiatrist that I now see twice weekly took X-rays and pronounced the sprain bad but not horrible.  A regimen of physical therapy and eventually exercise therapy was prescribed, and along with the expected guidance of applying ice and pressure, staying off of it as much as possible … and, oh yeah, no heels.  In one moment more than half of my prized shoe collection became obsolete.  Images flashed through my mind of Melanie Griffith in Working Girl and the string of where-are-they-now actresses who starred opposite Michael J. Fox in the seemingly endless corporate-set comedies of the 90s – sneakers and tweed suits.  I asked the doctor if he could give me something for the nausea. 

I admit my online search for flats was involuntary and half-hearted, emotions that quickly changed when I got a glimpse at the season’s offerings.  I was picturing plain, dowdy, functional … but instead found sequins peep toe flats with a tiny hidden wedge, sleek croco embossed ballerinas with enough toe cleavage to make Mae West’s feet happy, nautical-inspired canvas skimmers for weekend and jeweled gladiator sandals that have become the jewel of my wardrobe.  Never did I expect to find so much excitement at sea level! 

Five months have passed and I’m still making regular dates with my podiatrist, as there is still enough swelling to preclude my status from reaching “back to normal.”  My feet may not be fully functional, but they are truly fashionable, and my dismay has turned to delight as I add new flat styles for fall and winter.  (Full disclosure, relapses are inevitable.  I admit to braving a pair of 3-inch platforms for a recent event, two hours into which my ankle began to resemble a grapefruit.  And produce of any kind does not belong at Lincoln Center, no matter how well dressed.)

The sidewalks clearly approve of my new footwear choices, as they haven’t tried to trip me up since that fateful day.  But sooner or later my ankle will return to normal, and if the sidewalks of New York think they have scared me off of heels for good … they’re flat out wrong.