Teen Pantyhose Heels

Teen Pantyhose Heels
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When my fashionista daughter got a $40 gift card to DSW for her 13th birthday, I knew the stage had been set for battle. We had been arguing over the “appropriateness” of sky-high heels for two years already. She was pro; I was con.
A few weeks later, our trek to DSW for back-to-school tennis shoes started out serenely enough. Avy quickly picked out a pair of Nikes. My husband and son, also in tow, naively headed toward the cash register.
A quick search of the store found Avy sprawled on the floor in the clearance section, tenderly strapping on five-inch, slingback cork wedge sandals with thick black straps, shiny gold buckles, and a small round peep toe.
“Do not say anything !” my daughter grinned mischievously when she spotted me above her, a dreamy expression plastered across her face. Resisting the urge to put out my hand to assist her, I watched as she carefully stood and edged toward the full-length mirror, where the preening began.
This wasn’t our first brush with the land of towering heels . When Avy was 11, for Christmas, my sister-in-law wrapped up a pair of shiny black 6-inch peep-toe stilettos that her daughter had been enthralled with at Avy’s age.
By the look on my daughter’s face, you’d have thought there were a dozen puppies stuffed into that shoebox. My husband shot me a “WTF?!” look — a look that failed to evaporate when I confessed I’d pre-approved the gift.
“OMG! I love them! I look amazing !” Avy declared the next afternoon as she clicked across our hardwood floors in her new kicks. “I’m wearing these out to dinner tonight!”
“No you’re not,” my husband and I chorused in response.
“Give me three good reasons why not!” our master-negotiator-since-birth retorted.
“They’re just not…appropriate,” my husband and I harmonized, pointing out the risk of broken ankles and ripped tendons. When that argument failed miserably, we found ourselves tossing out words like “cheap,” “easy,” and “wrong impression” — even explaining about “ladies of the night,” for god’s sake.
Honestly, I felt conflicted myself. While I certainly did not want my preteen leaving the house in stripper heels, I was having trouble making a solid case against it. She wasn’t going out naked. It wasn’t illegal. They were simply high heels, right?
Ultimately, I gave our daughter the go-ahead, after my husband ceded the decision to me. And she did wear them out of the house. Twice — once out to dinner, and once to see a play in the city.
On both occasions, she got a few quizzical looks. Mostly, though, she got kindhearted comments from grown women who enjoyed her spirit, admired her confidence, and who commiserated and agreed when she admitted the shoes were a bit painful — but totally worth it.
Two years later, back in that clearance aisle at DSW, my husband asked me, “Are you really going to let her buy those?” Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I chose not to reply, and he walked out of the store.
As I explained to my husband later, I told Avy yes because I saw the look on our daughter’s face as she preened in that full-length mirror. She was gazing at her face, not her feet. She was seeing her future all-grown-up self, anticipating all the possibilities on her horizon. She was brimming with confidence, reveling in her own beauty.
I said yes because, for several years, Avy has been lamenting how much she hates being too old for the little kids’ fun stuff, but too young for the grown-ups’ fun stuff. Somehow those cork wedges give her hope that she won’t be stuck in limbo forever.
I said yes because it was her birthday money, and she has to be allowed to make her own choices.
I will admit that walking around the mall beside my 13-year-old in 5-inch platforms makes me a little self-conscious. Part of me wonders what the other moms are thinking, and if they’re judging me for letting my daughter strut around in shockingly high shoes.
On the flip side, Avy knows her sandals are a bit inappropriate, but she’s always prided herself on going against the flow. (She steadfastly refused to read the Harry Potter series just because everyone else was so enthralled with it.)
Here’s the best part: Moseying along beside my suddenly 5-foot-10-inch teenager, we can’t help but giggle as she occasionally reaches for my shoulder to steady her gate. I try to keep a straight face as she throws her arm around my shoulder — over my shoulder, to be precise — and when I roll my eyes, she laughs and so do I.
We both understand all the subtexts at play — how outrageous it is in one sense, and how utterly meaningless it is in another. And it brings this mom and this teenage girl even closer.
This article was originally published on 9.5.2016

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I love wearing high heels. When I used to work in a law firm, I'd wear them every day and I adored every click-clacky moment of it. I'm now a writer who pads about my own apartment in sweat pants and giant socks, which is equally as satisfying but for totally different reasons. Regardless of my new slovenly status, I jump at any opportunity to wear heels, and have adopted the heeled bootie as a daily compromise between my deep, primal love for tall shoes and my casual lifestyle. They're the perfect middle man between sassy and accessible, bars and movies, parties and short strolls.
That said, I love a good stiletto. I like them tall and precarious. I like them leather and embellished. I like them with straps and buckles and whatever other accoutrements make other girls go "OMG, WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE SHOES?" (at which point I reveal that I, being the shopping genius I am, got them half-off on sale). I like to wear high heels like I'm as hot as Jamie Lee Curtis in the strip tease scene in True Lies because that's how every pair of high heels deserves to be worn. All that said, wearing high heels can be as challenging as it is rewarding, and my girls in the vertiginous shoes will understand. Here are 6 thoughts girls will inevitably have while trodding about in high heels.
This is the first and most important thought a woman in heels will have. She'll put the heels on, look in the mirror, and fall utterly in love with her own legs, which is the magic and the beauty of heels, and why we should always have at least one pair that makes us love ourselves so utterly and disgustingly and unconditionally that we're actually overwhelmed by it. Sometimes all it takes is a pair of shoes to remind you how stupidly foxy you are, and if that's how little it takes then the healing power of heels is alright by me.
In your first act of heel-wearing, everything will feel very wonderful, and like you could run to catch cabs or click about Whole Foods in high heels every damn day. I mean, how cute would you look in heels on a vintage bike? SO cute, that's how cute. Why don't all women wear heels every day? It's the greatest. Heels make you feel so delicious, you'll be convinced you should and could take up wearing them full-time, so much have you been elated by the feeling of sexiness and power that comes with a pair of stilettos.
You'll be so enamored with your heel-wearing self, you'll start creating fantastic scenarios in which you're a spy or a vampire slayer who always wears tall shoes. In these fantasies, you'll sexily step on the phone cord (because this fantasy only works if phones have cords) when an evil genius is relaying evil information about blowing up the world, then you'll karate kick him to the head with your perfectly-shod feet. The assassin fantasy will culminate in you taking off your shoe and using the heel to stab the evil genius (now revealed to be a vampire, naturally) straight through the heart. You are not crazy—you are the best, and this imaginary heel wearing spy alter-ego is fabulous.
"And why are my friends walking so much faster than me? Why does this street have so many cracks and dips in the pavement? Shouldn't the city do something about this? Oh great, a cobbled street. What do you mean, it's a standing room only concert? I need to sit down!" Eventually, wearing heels wears you down, especially if you're walking or standing a lot. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but after a while, even the most comfortable pair of heels will start to feel uncomfortable.
If you can't stand the heat, get out of the damn kitchen. Don't wear heels and take them off in public. This is disgusting, not only for your bare feet, which are now enjoying the same concrete side walk that dogs piss on, but for everyone around you who has to look at and think about your bare feet and any potentially related gross things like toe gunk or fungus. Also, you look like a tool carrying your heels. It's a temptation, sure, but one that every rationally-minded, strong-willed woman will fight because WE NEVER SAY DIE.
This will be your final thought while wearing heels, and it will scream in your head on repeat, rendering you unable to think of anything else until you get home and rip the heels from your feet for sweet, sweet relief. Totally worth it, though.

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