FAREWELL, MY GLAMOROUS HIGH-HEELED FRIENDS

Sure, high heels look great. They give your legs that elegant, gazelle-like appearance and can make even the dullest outfit look like it just walked off a Milan catwalk. Slip on a pair of stilettos, and suddenly you’re gliding into the room like you own the place—until, of course, you try to descend a flight of stairs. Then it’s less “runway model” and more “Bambi on ice.”

Flatties? Oh, bless their practical little soles. They’re fine for the supermarket or a stroll along the beach, but with an evening gown? Please. A pair of ballet flats under a cocktail dress says, I’m giving up on glamour and might pop to Aldi later.

But here’s the thing: stilettos are tiny, beautiful torture devices. They squeeze your toes into a position only a contortionist should attempt, force your posture into a shape reminiscent of a question mark, and eventually leave your knees sounding like castanets every time you stand up.

Women of a certain age (you know who you are) eventually realise there comes a time when the risk assessment outweighs the glamour. I can no longer stand up for more than 30 minutes in those shoes without risking either serious injury or becoming an involuntary YouTube sensation titled Woman Wipes Out at Wedding Reception.

Reluctantly, I’ve retired my beautiful heels. Yes, I donated them to charity, so hopefully, some bright young thing is out there right now strutting confidently into the future, blissfully unaware of what’s coming for her knees in 20 years.

These days, I’ve embraced a modestly elevated heel—enough to feel like I’ve made an effort but low enough that I can survive an entire evening without needing paramedics or a chiropractor on standby.

For those who want the cold, hard truth, the LUSTRE article “WILL YOU WEAR HIGH HEELS AGAIN?” lays it all out like a crime scene report for your feet. Another piece, “WEARING HEELS: FASHION OR SAFETY HAZARD?” confirms what I already suspected: the line between stylish and reckless is about three inches high and covered in patent leather.

So yes, I’ve swapped elegance for safety. My feet are grateful. My back is grateful. My dignity—mostly intact after a few near-misses—is definitely grateful.

And who knows? Maybe one day the fashion world will bring out a pair of slippers that look red-carpet ready. Until then, I’ll be the one in the slightly elevated heels, waving wistfully at the stilettos in the shop window like an ex-lover you know you’re better off without.