GOOD RIDDANCE CARRIE BRADSHAW!
(Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman with Corns)

 
March 15, 2004

     Carrie Bradshaw, the sexy slave to fashion who strutted into our homes Sunday night for the past six years, was once shoe-shamed for having spent $485 on a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes by the friend in whose apartment those shoes were stolen.  But the shame is really on the other foot.  Carrie shamed the rest of us slaves to comfort who schlepped around town in forget me flats.  We were made to feel un-sexy, un-feminine, un-cool.

     Understandably, we occasionally surrendered to style despite shooting pains and bloodied feet.  (Similar to the Surgeon General's warning on a pack of cigarettes, why isn’t a red foot stamped on every box of Blahniks?)  We’re ashamed to slip into walking shoes and shamed into strapping on spiky mules.  The comfortable shoes that we gravitate toward - the really shameful shoes - are the footwear equivalent of no makeup.  They are the shoes we run to when we don't want to think.

     And today's styles require thought.  Is the width of the tiny heel tip wider than the gap between the escalator slats?  Will the material of the sole slip on a wet manhole cover?  Is that cobblestone up ahead?

     Navigating city streets challenges the soles.  Look at the feet stilting along in varying degrees of confidence during sandal season.  Toes are pressed hard against the ground in a foot grimace bracing against the body's weight thrown forward by the inflexible arch of the shoe.  Toe tips are white with pressure while the upper toe connecting to the body of the foot is red with blood damned up from the point of the flex.  All the while, toe knuckles are flexing back and forth, helping the foot clutch onto the sandal.

     Eventually blisters and bunions are just a few of the maladies that fashionable women hobble past on the entrance ramp to full-blown high heel disability.  Back pain, joint injuries and in extreme cases of excessive high heel wearing, ankle equines – a condition when calf muscles and Achilles tendons become permanently shortened – are awaiting women down the road.  It's just a hop, skip and a jump from the ancient practice of binding girls' feet.  I say good riddance Carrie Bradshaw!  Hell hath no fury like a woman with corns.   

     But what if the killer shoes were on the other sex's foot?  The men who should be squeezing into the unyielding leather of pointy pumps are the celebrated shoe designers:  Manolo Blahnik forced to walk a mile in his signature stilettos and Steve Madden strapped into a pair of his platforms.

     And what will become of HBO's timeslot now that Sex and the City has sauntered off into the syndication sunset?  Perhaps a reality show:  40+ women in 4-inch heels must make it on foot from the Central Park Boat House to City Hall without removing their shoes.  Cameramen in sneakers will follow their every move.  The first woman to reach the steps of City Hall will be declared the winner.  The prize?  She gets to marry an orthopedic surgeon.