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If you want to know the fastest way to make a grown woman swoon, forget roses and candlelight. Bring me a pair of shoes so dazzling they really should be paying rent. I may be a wheelchair user, but my love of shoes is as boundless as a toddler in a ball pit. In fact, I’d argue I appreciate footwear even more. After all, I get the joy of wearing skyscraper heels without the corresponding danger of face-planting into a potted plant.
From my vantage point, seated, wheels glinting, dignity mostly intact, I admire shoes the way art critics admire paintings. A bold red stiletto? A masterpiece in passion. A glitter-soaked sneaker? Avant-garde rebellion. A boot tall enough to be mistaken for a climbing wall? Architectural genius. My feet may not be walking runways, but trust me, they are serving looks from the comfort of aluminum and upholstery.
People often ask, “But why so many shoes?” as though a woman should pick one or two and call it a life. Nonsense. Shoes are stories. Some whisper confidence, some scream mischief and some dare me to wear them to a dental appointment just to frighten the hygienist. My wheels may take me places, but my shoes decide the mood when I get there.
And let’s be honest: the wheelchair is the perfect stage. Shoes stay pristine. No scuffing, no puddles, no tragic chewing gum incidents. My heels remain sharper than my comebacks. My sneakers stay whiter than freshly bleached laundry. My boots, oh, my boots! Thy look like they’ve never known hardship, because frankly, they haven’t. They ride first-class all the way.
So yes, I love shoes. Unapologetically, enthusiastically, excessively. They’re my fashion fireworks, my tiny trophies and my loyal partners in fabulousness.
After all, if life gives you wheels, pair them with incredible heels.