For a solid twenty years, I would not be caught dead in a pair of flats. Ew. No. Gross. Dumpy. Fattie. Blah. Boring. Midget (calm down everyone) Low heeled loser. Way to look invisible. Yeah, I think that covers it. I wore high heels the way most women wear a comfy pair of walking shoes, which, if you love me you’ll never let me wear these and immediately knock me down in the street and steal them if I’m wearing them, and then burn them and hide all the evidence. I could walk around in high heels for hours. In fact, I could and have raced people in high heels to prove my agility. I would spend an entire work day in my heels and never take them off – but that’s mostly because if I did my feet would swell up like pot bellied pigs and I’d never be able to stuff the porky little toes back into their cramping torture chambers. And trust me – some of my shoes were just that. In fact – Christian Louboutin – who makes shoes that look like art – is a mother fucking sado-masochist. I’m convinced he’s trying to wipe out women one D’orsay pump at a time. My love affair with shoes really started in los angeles because you can’t wear high heels in New York City. Well you can, but by the end of one block they look like a dog chewed the heels and you have been stuck in a crack so many times cab drivers and construction workers think you’re wasted because you keep falling out of your shoes. I can’t tell you how many times a sidewalk crack ripped the shoe right off my foot at the most inopportune time. I guess there really is no opportune time to take a header in Manhattan. Now, it’s not unusual for a woman to admit that she loves high heels – in fact it pretty much makes me the most basic bitch around. I once had to make a Sophie’s choice in a Saks Fifth Avenue between five pairs of shoes because I could only afford four of them and I know it’s not cool to compare picking shoes to dead babies but for me at that time – it was pretty painful. I look at beautiful shoes and drool immediately starts pooling at the corners of my mouth. I must have them. I have to have them. I will die if I don’t have them. Well – I fucking have them ALL now folks and about thirty thousand dollars later – I’m over them. Now what!? Resell – which is leading to shame… extreme shame – for what I have wasted. And I’m not talking about the ones I wore – I’m talking about the ones I HAD TO HAVE – that have spent more time on a dusty shelf in my closet than on my feet. And you know what’s truly frightening? As I try to unload these leathery suedy sparkly little pieces of real estate – I’m finding out that the jokes on me – because the only true designer pieces that appreciate over the years are the ones that were worn by famous people – like Madonna – and in the words of Joan Cusack in the greatest (only) movie ever made about Staten Island, “Working Girl” – “sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn’t make me Madonna. Never will.” So unless you’re a famous person, who probably got them for free because celebrities pay for nothing and then resell everything at a much higher price, you can kiss a profit good bye. If you ever see a famous person physically hand over a credit card for a piece of fashion you should take a picture of it because it is more rare than a big foot sighting unless it’s a famous Trans person shopping and then it actually could BE a big foot sighting. Calm down folks some Men who Become women still have big feet. But what is unusual for me – is the end of my love affair with shoes. I didn’t stop wearing them because I couldn’t walk in them – I stopped wearing them because I got fit – I got leaner – and I feel just a little bit taller in my body. In fact – I feel great in my flats – until I stand next to my tall girlfriends and then I feel like their old feeble friend or a lesbian – because I also have tattoos and I guess short and tatted makes you a lesbian based on the amount of ladies who hit on me – but for the most part – I enjoy a nice flat. Now don’t get me wrong – I am keeping plenty of my high heels and I’m purring over kitten heels the way any 56 year old careening into the senior citizen home would – but flat is where it’s at for me right now. Take note though – when you see me in a business setting surrounded by men – I’ll be wearing those sky high shoes – because nothing says don’t listen to her – like a 5’4” jewish chick – no matter how loud I am. Sometimes you just gotta be eye to eye – to be heard like a guy.