About Elizabeth Whitney
I recently wore a pair of heels for about thirty minutes in a photo shoot, and by the end of it I was literally limping down the street. What’s worse, I have developed plantar fasciitis in one of my feet.
Like many femmebots, I have long been obsessed with shoes. Way back when I was employed in a certain profession that required it, I used to wear hot spiky heels for eight hours at a time. And as a matter of fact, yeah, they did make me feel strong and sexy and in control, and all that other stuff that feminists use to argue for why heels are empowering and not tools of the patriarchy, etc.
HOWEVER. I’m getting older. I’m having a milestone birthday this year, and yoga is starting to hurt. I keep an ice pack in the freezer, ready to go at all times. I’m becoming increasingly aware of my physical vulnerabilities, and this is causing me to question the supposed innate relationship between queer femme identity and complicated fashion. Nowhere is this more apparent than with my shoes. I cannot, and I mean, I physically cannot wear heels anymore. They hobble me—and not in a playful way. I recently wore a pair of heels for about thirty minutes in a photo shoot, and by the end of it I was literally limping down the street. What’s worse, I have developed plantar fasciitis in one of my feet. What the eff, right? What is that, even? Well, it’s when the fascia on the bottom of your feet tear and it feels like someone is stabbing you when you get out of bed in the morning and from now on you can only wear shoes with really good arch support.