As a person of demure height who has gone through life at ground level, forced to ‘look up to’ my peers towering over me thanks to their reinforced stature – I would like to thank the shoe world for, wedges.
Whoever knew one could realise the joy of height and comfort. As I discovered, the beauty of wedges is the solid platform which joins the sole and heel together in one fluid sweep of leather, cork or wood. Gone is the need for unnatural balancing acts as you totter down the street looking like an ungainly gazelle, or shifting from one foot to the other in order to ease the burning discomfort, or throwing hard-earned cash at startled Boots and Superdrug cashiers as you stock up on so many pairs of Party Feet gel pads.
Akin to the slim-inducing properties of wearing black, wedges bestow upon individuals such as my 5”4 self, who cannot master the art of wearing high heels, the illusion of towering glamazonian stiletto prowess. The wedge could be said to be to shoes what stabilizer wheels are to bicycles; allowing clumsy young women and five year-old children alike the luxury of joining in with a trend already mastered by their contemporaries.
Like so many members of the female population I have, at times, an unhealthy obsession with all things Carrie Bradshaw. Not quite embroiled with my screen-queen to stretch to becoming a smoker and coffee drinker – I confess, I am a committed non-smoker and lifelong advocate of the green tea – the one Bradshaw luxury I wish to succumb to is “very high heels”. Though I may not be able to afford her coveted labels of Blahnik, Louboutin and Choo, I aspire to achieve the poise and skill of walking in high heels, which she makes look as easy as Serena Williams does winning a grand slam title.
Inspired by several trends endorsed by my style icon, I pillaged the virtual ASOS shoe lounge following the debut of the SATC movie in 2008, furnishing my already duly populated assortment of footwear with two pairs of skyscraper heels. Attempting to stand in my newly acquired 4 inch extreme black gladiator sandals (in the style of Christian Dior) was a feat of epic proportions (pun intended). However as I contemplated navigating the Kilburn High Road for the New Years Eve outing they were destined for, I felt a thrill of fear down my spine – not least for the impact my new shoes would have on it.
Leaning on my fiancé – who unhelpfully spent the majority of the 20 minute ordeal shaking quite uncontrollably with laughter – I hobbled to the bar. Honestly, if men had to experience the pain we go through to achieve beauty they would rethink the mockery! Once we arrived I thankfully sank into the sofa in our reserved area and remained there for the duration of the evening. Feeling like some royal or celestial being, friends attended to me, dutifully admiring my head-to-toe ensemble, forming a sociable cluster around the sofa while I observed and participated from my seated vantage point. Fearing the hobblesome return journey at the end of the night, I reluctantly admitted defeat and replaced my heels with the Feet Fairies I had earlier concealed in my handbag. Another fantastic fashion discovery!
I am inclined to blame this heel-intolerance on my mother, who on taking me shopping at age 13 for party shoes, allowed me to try on a pair of gorgeous black heels and then point-blank refused to buy them for me – despite my plaintive attempts to appeal to her good-will. She maintained that I would never wear them again and therefore they were not worth the £20 (it was the 1990s) she would have to pay for them. From that moment on, “high-heels” became the elephant in our North-London home, carefully side-stepped prior to every shoe-shopping excursion.
I sorrowfully looked on as school assemblies quickly spiraled into self-depreciative pity parties, as I mentally compared the heel-height on every other girl’s shoes parading past me daily. My tweenage years passed by in a blur of school discos, inconsequential dates and girlie weekend trips to town with only brogues, plimsols and pumps for company. I purposely surrounded myself with friends shorter than me to regain some of the confidence lost in developing a height-specific complex.
Until one day, I was presented with a large white box and inside was a pair of black knee-high velvet boots with, a wedge heel. It was a Eureka! moment; my mother had found a loophole in the ‘no heels’ clause and I was magically elevated a few inches beyond my then hobbit-adjacent 5ft frame. I wore them everywhere and still have a photograph of me wearing them, complete with cream roll-neck top and black mini, tacked to the inside of my wardrobe. In homage to this special discovery my shoe collection will always include a pair of knee-high velvet black boots, with a wedge heel.
Wedges have become my not-so-secret fashion indulgence as I purchase a new pair every season, ranging from the £50 high street pair to the £250 designer pair. Black patent wedge ankle boots à la Stella McCartney for shopping trips to New York, mustard peep-toe wedges for strutting down sunny Parisian boulevards and navy suede lace-up wedge shoes for London City chic. From spring to winter, there is a wedge to fit all.
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