For most of my adult life, I have avoided heels. I see them as the self-imposed bondage that delivers women willingly into the hands of their male oppressors. And yet. And yet.
I have suddenly forfeited my feminist arguments for the allure of a tensed calf atop a modified stilt. I stand sideways in my full-length mirror and admire the line that runs from the bottom of the heel to the bend of the calf as it curves to the back of the knee. I model my own feet as though they are new accessories.