Mz. Jackson, Six Feet Tall in Heels

This is a story about a very special pair of shoes. Warning: It's just a teensy bit risque, but I think y'all can handle it.

I first see them at Kohls in the shoe department. At this time, I am working at a new job that requires me to dress up and am looking for shoes that go well with professional type skirts. There is an abundance of cute shoes to choose from, shoes with jewels and stones and ribbons, but I pass by most of them with a mere longing glance. They all have high heels and as usual, I am seeking flats, ones that don’t make me look like an old woman. Because, you see my friends, I am five foot eight plus in my bare feet—which makes me almost six feet tall in the typical pair of heels.

But then I see these.


With their soft suede and gently scalloped edges. Black to go with most any professional attire. And they’re on clearance. What could be more perfect?

There is only one hang up. The heels on these babies measure at least three inches, maybe more. Instantly, I can see myself, Mz. Jackson towering over everyone as I walk into Quik Trip for my morning cup of Chai Latte, looking right over most everyone else's head and feeling like an Amazon.

And yet, I cannot resist temptation. I reverently take these beauties from the box and slip them on. Oh my God, I never knew my calves and ankles could look like that. I can hear my eldest, Her Royal Highness, who watches “What Not to Wear” saying, “Heels are great Mom. They elongate the leg.” As if my legs need elongating. They already make up a good half of my body.

I totter to a nearby mirror, trying not to trip as I am dreadfully out of practice. Just as I expected, I’m towering, even here in the shoe section. But one look solidifies my infatuation into full blown love. I cannot resist. I. Must. Have. Shoes.

I. Must. Have. THESE. Shoes.

My best friend, Rebecca, is not with me, but I can hear her in my head. “Mz. Jackson, you have got to get those shoes. Who the hell cares if you’re tall? They look incredible.”

Her voice emboldens me. I put back on my old shoes, which now seem to be ugly stepsisters in comparison with these princesses. With determination, I grab up the box. It is now or never. I have not worn heels since my big growth spurt at twelve sent me almost to my present height. But by God, I’m getting these puppies.

I can hardly contain my joy as I get into the car. I put on the princesses, toss the stepsisters into the box, and throw the box over my shoulder into the back seat. It is almost time to pick up Her Royal Highness, but I cannot resist staring a moment at my foot on the gas pedal in complete fascination. I can bet I’ll even drive better in these shoes.

From the moment she enters the car, my daughter radars in on my purchase. She, who like my buddy Rebecca is a shoe fiend, is infinitely pleased. . When we get home, she takes a digital picture of my shoes so that I can send it to Rebecca, who calls me immediately and raves over my decision.

The true test however, is Mr. Jackson, who is the same height as me. He has never voiced any objections to my wearing heels. In fact, he loves that I am tall. He comes from a—shall we say—“vertically challenged” family and has never made any secret of the fact that my height was a big bonus just by virtue of enriching the gene pool. (Yes, my oldest is only five four, but considering that my husband’s grandmother didn’t even graze five feet, I’d say that it has been a successful venture so far.) But still. I’ve already mentioned that I don’t like towering over others and the idea of being that much taller than my mate has never made me feel very feminine.

Later that afternoon, when the kids are occupied with homework, computers and television, I take my beloved into the bedroom and show him the shoes in the box. He nods approvingly. The first hurdle is passed.

“Those are pretty,” he says.

“I thought so.”

Mr. Jackson waits expectantly as I fiddle with the shoes and then says, “Well? Aren’t you going to put them on?”

I gulp and pull them from the box. First one shoe goes on, then the other. Sure enough, within seconds, my husband is staring up at me in all my almost six foot grandeur. He looks me up and down, his eyes pausing for a long moment on my legs.

“What do you think?” I ask nervously.

He doesn’t say anything. He just grins. Then he goes to the bedroom door, shuts it...

And when I hear him hit the lock button, I know I’m not the only one who likes my new shoes.