L'horreur des chaussures à talons hauts

I recently had the privilege of viewing a television commercial for some now-forgotten product that claimed to be some sort of remedy for the much-begrudged menstrual torments we most of us are acquainted with, or are at least aware of. The commercial featured a comedianne joking about how her monthly cycle would 'transform [her] into something that isn't human.' At the time-- and this still holds true, obviously-- I remember feeling inclined to take issue with such a description. Though I wholly appreciate with the range of pain and discomfort women endure re the reproduction organs. However, I would like to point out that, on the whole this experience is a completely natural function of our human physical layout--- not alien or otherworldy or otherwise extra-homosapien. I, myself, am probably never more aware of my own mortality and inner workings than during this period (haha, get it!).

No. PMS. Perfectly natural. One of those simple, if sad, facts of life. For at least some of us.

What does transform that some of us into something that isn't human? High-heeled shoes.

This thought crossed my mind as I stood in the late afternoon sunshine on a city street corner, fantasizing about the gruesome death, I felt for a brief moment, another person deserved. The context of this of course is that I was waiting for my ride home from work, and like most of the unorganized, unreliable people I know, Ride was late. This tardiness meant only one thing to my deranged mental-state: more standing. Specifically, more blindingly agonizing standing in my high-heeled shoes. The pain in these poor afflicted components of my substructure, increasing exponentially as time crept its petty pace, was reaching mind-blowing proportions. It consumed my thoughts until all I was aware of was the throbbing white-hot screaming nerve cells of my unfortunate soles, begging for relief. The world converged and the universe realigned itself with one purpose: to stop my swollen feet from hurting. One person, namely Ride, stood in my way, and as far as Laura's-Feet-centric Parallel Universe was concerned he need to be taken out.

A steam-roller should mow him down in the cross-walk. A massive block of granite should fall from the sky and pulp him into the greasy asphalt. A random blast of super hot laser energy should obliterate him. A massive car crash should culminate in his miserable person being crushed between hard, unrelenting surfaces of motor vehicle . . . at this point I became aware of the alarming ravings of my pain-poisoned psyche. Since when was I such a blood-thirsty monster? Why on earth did this poor Ride, who was probably just running late because he held the elevator for a little old lady or let a pedestrian cross unhurried, deserve such an ungenerous and graphic exit from this life? I had gone completely off my head! Was it his fault that I had to spend most of my day standing, breathing in the ozone emissions of the photocopier? No. Was it his fault I had arrived at the pick-up point eight minutes early? No. Was he the one forcing me to wear heels to work? No. He was just a nice guy who had offered a lift to someone who was obviously completely crackers.

If I was to vengefully plot the death of anyone, it should have been the person the who had made the high-heeled shoe the standard expected footwear of the female business dress code. In these situations we often find ourselves blaming the inventor. And while the inventor of the high-heeled woman's shoe was probably in league with Satan, I speak the truth when I draw to our attention the fact that we should probably be gnashing our teeth at least as much, if not more, in the direction of the diabolical person or persons who actually decided to sign on to this whole 4 inch women's heel scheme. I mean to say people are always spouting dreadful ideas--- like the massive portion sizes at fast-food restaurants or the penning of the awful saga of Bella Swan's pathetic life --- but these manifestations of human failing would never see the light of day if it were not for the pack of fools that egg these bringers-of-doom on. Who was it I would like to know that, after giving it a moment of thought, decided that yes, strapping 3 to 6 inch pegs to women's feet and mocking them as they hobble around in attempt to walk sounds, now that I reflect on it, like a good idea. It is as ludicrous as the notoriously inhumane, ancient Chinese custom of wrapping the feet.

But it's actually quite a clever ruse because it often doesn't start hurting until about 20 or 30 minutes in, so like a drug dealer, the sexist, control-freak, egomaniac high-heeled shoe pushers can easily trick their victims into giving this culturally-sanctioned patriarchal handicap a naive go. And suddenly, one gender of our species is bullied into wearing this crippling emblem of inequality for all eternity, making a sad spectacle of its attempts to break through that glass ceiling. We all may pretend it's just a flighty fancy of the feminine or sexy staple of seduction--- but we know, the alpha females know, and the alpha males know it's a massive lie. Men sit high on their ladders whether corporate, political etc. and relax in the comfort of knowing their female underlings scutter about below them, fighting to maintain their sanity, success and survival through a distorting haze of podiatric agony. They know what the official or unofficial dress code is for, those men, they deserve to be mowed down by a steam roller, pulped by a massive block of granite, oblit. . . well you know.