Every girl learns, at a relatively early age, that shoes are important. I remember a day long before my teenage years where I was gifted with three long, fabulous wigs (the pink was my favorite, it made me feel like Jem) and a set of play high heels. Forget a magic wand -- these shoes had POWERS. Ever since, I've bowed to the allure of the heel, the platform, the peeptoe, and, god-help me, the studded slingback.
Until now. After a period of near lifelong servitude at the altar of pain, I made a gut-wrenching decision (sorry, wait, that was just my bowels talking -- the decision was actually an easy one). I'm DONE hurting my feet to achieve some warped idea of beauty. Hell, I've already set my Spanx on fire and shorn my locks -- how hard could this step be?