Last night I wore high heels for the first time. Well, not counting when I played dress-up with my mom's purple stilettos.

Mike and I went to a friend's wedding, and I bought a new dress for it. I looked stunning in this dress, so I figured, what the heck, buy heels to accent it.

However, there was a problem--- I have no idea how to walk in heels. My mother never taught me, because I showed no interest in heels or make-up when I was growing up. My sisters have always been the athletic, tomboyish type who never wear dresses or make-up and who climb trees at thirty years old. So they never taught me either.

My closest female friend is much like my sisters, so she's no help.

So I had an choice--- either wear the heels all day in an attempt to get accostumed to them, or get Mike's mother to teach me. I chose the former.

Yesterday morning, I put on the shoes and went out front to practice. I wobbled around on the dirt road for about twenty minutes, hoping that the neighbors would not notice my incongruous attire--- old gym shorts, ratty t-shirt, ponytail, and black patent-leather spiked heels.

The work paid off, however-- at the wedding, I felt confident enough that I did not look like a linebacker in drag. ( I also had to remind my self not to sit with my knees apart or my legs crossed like a man. ) I payed attention to things I had never noticed before-- how women carry themselves when they have heels on, how they sit, and so on. I felt pretty silly because I'm so ungraceful.

So now I feel like I've been inducted into an aspect of femininity I was clueless about. But my feet are killing me.

--Jez"femme fatale error"zika