In late 2007, after the initial euphoria of my positive pregnancy test had died down, I was beset by many worries. What if I become so big I need a fork lift to get me out of bed, will I be belching and farting like a truck driver even after I’ve had the baby and how will I survive nine months without wearing high heels.
I am pleased to report that no fork lifts were hired, the farting and belching are back to acceptable levels (if we ever share a lift, IT WASN’T ME) and I haven’t worn a pair of heels since, except on the occasion of a dear friend’s wedding reception, and even then, after two hours I slipped my heels off and padded around on the lawns barefoot. My feet had become acclimatized to flats.
In August 07, my heels were carefully wrapped up in individual covers and then placed at the bottom of my cupboard. They are yet to see light of day. I am now a Converse, Birkenstock, ballet flat and flat boot girl and I have to say, my feet have never been happier. I must have been very stupid back then to have done my 2 hour commute to work every day in five inch heels (very very very stupid, on the days I didn’t get a place to sit) and wear knee high leather boots with spiky heels out for dinners and parties. My life is now devoid of work commutes and a party for me is take away pizza and my son in bed by 7:30pm. So while heels get higher and more ridiculous looking, I’m keeping my feet on the ground.
(Hadley Freeman’s no nonsense fashion column in The Guardian is a favourite of mine. Read her piece on high heels, here.)