I’ve always believed you can’t be tall enough. I’m an Amazonian 6-feet-tall, but I still love wearing heels. There’s nothing more gratifying than towering over small men, except, of course, when they expect you to kill your own spiders. I’ve never wanted to be one of those tall girls in flats curved into an apologetic stoop.

I adore heels. From the delicate kitten heel of a summer sandal to a pointy patent-leather pump, there’s a world of foot bondage that I just can’t resist. Some shoes require two Nurofen just to make it down the street.

It’s only in the past few years that I’ve committed to flatware—after I discovered the bunion. It’s the unsexiest word in the English language. I’ve never heard a bloke say, “Wow, did you check the size of her bunions?” Or have I? In my internet bunion research, I was horrified to find websites full of shocking photos of people doing pornographic things with their peds.

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So for the past year, I’ve been pavement-bound in thongs. I couldn’t bring myself to wear Crocs; they’re the bran flakes of the shoe market. I can’t help but think people in Crocs look like giant ducks. They’re not shoes—they’re a cry for help.

Then I develop stabbing foot pain. It wakes me in the middle of the night. I beg my husband to apply gentle acupressure. He groans like I’ve asked him to perform a prostate exam on the dog.

After months of sticking my foot in his face and alternating ice and heat packs, I go to the doctor. I have plantar fasciitis from wearing flats. I can’t believe it; I finally wear sensible shoes, and I’m a cripple. Now I need a slight heel and arch support. Great, there’s nothing more attractive than a little black dress and runners.

I enter a shoe shop, and the sales assistant directs me to the sensible, spongy section. The aisle of this season’s heels is a forbidden zone. I’m allowed to pluck shoes only from the perimenopausal tree. The salesperson shows me the latest shoe technology for plantar patients: a giant rubber sandal. It looks like a Homy Ped had sex with a gumboot. It’s the ugliest shoe I’ve ever seen. I start to cry. “Just take them home for a try,” she says. It’s the kind of shoe that could end a marriage. I have five kids; I’m not ready to be alone. “I can’t,” I tell her. Now I’m sobbing. “Just wear them around the house. In the dark,” she insists.

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She wins. I take them home. They’re wonderful. In the pitch black of my hallway, I’m finally pain-free. You can’t see me coming, but you can hear my soft squelching on the floorboards. I’m a comfy-shoe convert. I’ve always wondered why old ladies wear such bad shoes. Now I know.