hell in white wedges

People often say "she's hell in high heels" ... apparently I'm "Dyspraxia in white wedges"

I had a hankering for city life, so after an hour or two of checking my friends schedules and finding they were all being adults I decided to pop to Liverpool and see if the giant lush shop were still doing new year sales.

This culminated in me sticking to bold street, rooting through vintage shops, and falling in love with a pair of white, 3 inch platform wedge heels. "Bowie-ish, no! Freddie mercurian" I bargained with myself in Hope's that my little impulse moment of barely there genderfuckery would be worth it. Size 10. A good start. I could fit into them but I could barely zip them up.

"Is there anything I can do to alter these" I plucked up the courage to ask after multiple courtesy sweeps of the vintage shop. The retail assistant/part time barber (I later discovered) smiled and suggested taking them to the cobblers. "And what the hell does style J mean?" I inquired.

The barber looked at them as if he'd forgotten food in the oven. "That's the release date. I can whack them down to half price" he offered. My eyes sparkled at that sentence.

Cobbling expensive shoes was an investment, cobbling cheap shoes was an adjustment. I hauled my victory shoes (£14 by the end) into a bag and left, completely forgetting the existence of the lush shop.

Cut to the next day and I had gushed to all my androgynous or remotely trendy friends about these victory shoes. I even made two reddit posts, one of which attracted over 2k likes (which is weird, thanks r/thriftstorehauls). I talked about them the way people talk about roller coasters or season finales.

I tried to get them after uni, only to be informed that stretching shoe leather is a multi day process, so the discomfort would Have to do.

So I went to Rosie's, the local night club, in my flex shoes. This is where I learned what suffering is. Dyspraxia and stairs, dancing and heels, it was a disgrace and one that felt like Japanese foot binding... that was until I pulled.

Now maybe that was a me thing, being at the right place at the right time with an androgynous pirate looking person who was essentially if Johnathan Van Ness from queer eye played a rogue with questionable eyeliner and a lot of hip themed dance moves. But I feel the extra few inches helped.

You can do a lot with a surprise 3 inches, as I would joke that night. Wanda, the DJ/drag queen/agent of chaos began to torment us. They seemed to be old friends. The entire time all I could think was "JFC how does she not break her foot in her shoes every other night"


I left, of course, limping, heels in hand, alongside my friends. The glam rock heroes of the 80s may have stardust in their shoes ... but for a mortal like me I think I'll pace myself and stick to converse.

What I've learned:

1) £14 David Bowie shoes are a win

2) people wont clock anything aside from a drastic increase in height

3) they help correct your walking and make you pull

4) the trade off is any feeling below the ankle whatsoever that isn't crippling pain