Reach

If you know me, you are also probably aware that I have fetishes for two things: books and shoes. I have a towering shelf in my bedroom lined with books, and my piano is employed in catching the overflow. My closet is stocked with a continually growing collection of more than twenty pairs of size six shoes.

Surprisingly enough, I’m not going to talk about my books in this post. It’s shocking, right?

No, I’m going to talk about my shoes. Many of the shoes in my wardrobe are high heels. I wear heels for many reasons, nearly all of them trivial – i.e. the clicking noise high heels make when you walk, how they make your legs look longer and your little feet look cuter, and how they are oftentimes easier and faster to put on than something with laces.

But let’s get real for a minute: I’m short. This, perhaps, is the one real reason I wear high heels – they make me feel taller, prettier, happier, better.

Still, I constantly find myself reaching – even when I wear my newest pair. Measuring up at nearly 4.5 inches, these shoes are taller than anything else I’ve purchased. (And yes, I can walk in them perfectly fine. I’ve yet to meet a pair of heels I can’t master. And if you’ve got some that you think are too tall to handle, give me a ring – I love a challenge. I’m not afraid of de-feet! Haha sorry I couldn’t resist – I love terrible puns. If you missed it, don’t stress. It’s not that funny anyway :P). Even when I wear these shoes, I can’t reach the top shelf of my closet, or of the kitchen cabinets, or even of my beloved bookshelf.

I’m always reaching for something –a box of cereal, a book, an internship, a college degree, a career, success. Each little thing I’ve achieved so far has just added another inch to my heels, helping me to reach just a little bit higher.

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