Watch your step

Readers, allow me to wax poetic on the power of a certain shoe for a moment.

Yes, the stiletto can ruin your posture. Yes, it can cramp your feet. Yes, it may even give its wearer painful bunions that can only be removed with surgery. The stiletto is rightfully considered to be a Very Not Feminist piece of footwear.

On the other hand, the stiletto, with all its faults, is capable of doubling as a weapon for an unarmed woman in a pinch. Since I once had to defend myself armed with only my high-high-heels, that's enough to redeem those shoes in my eyes.

When I lived in Boston, some of my friends and coworkers would frequent a bar/restaurant called Tia's, which is located on the waterfront near Christopher Columbus Park. I wound up there one night after work with Kim, one of my coworkers. It was summer, and it was hot and humid. Tia's was the last place I wanted to be; it is - or was, at the time - a real meat market. It's popular with the tourists on account of its location and menu, which is a kind of American bistro setup; but on any given weeknight, you'll spot blazer-clad guys from the financial district (in search of eye candy and an easy lay) and scantily-clad women (in search of a man with earning potential). Talk about setting feminism back a few decades - the stiletto has nothing on the old sex-for-money trade. I swear, if I go to hell, I'll spend eternity trapped in a crowd of superficial tools like those while they ogle one another, trying to figure out how much they can get out of each other. If God decides that I've been especially bad, I'll also be spending eternity with those nitwits and we'll all be stuck Hell's karaoke bar.

As it was, Kim and I had wanted to go out after a long day, and I had on my favorite black heels, which I'd been wearing all day. Small Ginger factoid - I wear heels almost every day. I'm one of the few women I know who'll always go for heels over flats. I've got a high arch, so flats make my calves feel tight after a few hours. I've only gone without my heels once, for seven weeks, back in the winter of 1998, and only because I broke my right foot! You know what? Another Ginger factoid - I hate being 5'3". I come from a family of tall people. It annoys me that I'm the short one. That's my baggage, and heel therapy makes me feel better. Hey, I'm political, I volunteer, and I haven't depended on another living being since I was 23. Consider my feminist cred established.

We got a few drinks and a bite to eat, but before long, Kim and I had had enough of Tia's. After paying our bill and deciding where to go next, I needed to hit the ladies' room, which is in the back of the restaurant, past the bar.

On my way out, I walked right by the long wall bar and into the path of a couple of drunken idiots perched on barstools close to the door. One of them grabbed my forearm in his meaty paw; I immediately, instinctively tried to jerk it away, but he had me in a pretty serious grip. Before I could even speak, he leaned in and said, "If I don't want to let you go, then you're stuck here."

He laughed. So did his idiot buddy. Moron #1 was clearly performing for his friend. I just love it when a guy tries to humiliate some random woman to impress his homey! It really sends me.

"Let. Me. GO," I said through clenched teeth. I yanked backwards as hard as I could, but of course, I'm not a very big girl. I had pulled him halfway off his stool, but he laughed and readjusted himself, putting one flip-flop clad foot on the floor for balance.

I smiled, lifted one petite leg and jammed the heel of my black 4" stiletto down onto the top of his naked foot. Then I twisted it. Hard.

"FUCK!!!!!" He yelled. "MotherFUCKER. You fucking fucking BITCH. Awww, fuuuuuuck!!!"

"Fuck you, asshole," I spat, and walked out. Moron #2 laughed like a hyena. That's a high quality friend.