As I’m now fully immersed in the latter end of my twenties, I’ve considered updating the name of this blog. “I Prefer Heels” just doesn’t ring as true as “I Prefer Slippers” or “I Prefer Sweatpants” or “I Prefer to Just Stay Home Again Tonight, Thanks.” Then again, that last one might be a URL doozy. So IPH will stick. But people do sometimes ask me where I got the idea for the name. If you met me in high school or college, it’s easy. But if you met me anytime after about July of 2012, you’d be all lolololololol. Also, we may not have even met because my friend circle has gone down to about two and I spend more time alone with my cat than with humans, but whatever.
The year was 2012, and I was set to graduate from college and I had a loooot of white girl privilege and nothin but time on my hands. So I started diving deep into the world of fashion bloggers (because heels, duh). I’d spend hours on a blogger’s website, obsessing over the way they layered this necklace with that chambray shirt, or how they paired those bright colored jeans with that trench, or yadda, yadda, yadda. I convinced myself I MUST update my wardrobe, so I scoured sales at already discount shops for anything that kind of sort of resembled the $300 version the bloggers were always trying to hawk. I wasn’t picky. I didn’t want to Carrie Bradshaw my way through my measly Potbelly’s paycheck each week on a stupid pair of shoes that would shortly be covered in the sticky remnants of beer and regrets. So I splurged on the clearance section of Target and Kohl’s (standards, high), and collected every color of the rainbow in velvet, snakeskin, patent leather (oooh! The shine!) and more fake leather.
And then I decided to do like the Romans do and become a professional blogger because I was clearly ready (ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha). Step one: come up with a name. EASY. Step two: content creation.
This is where I started to take pictures. Of myself. And not the usual selfie game everyone has mastered today as a right of passage into the land of the free and home of the perfectly angled head tilt. I’m talking selfies OLD SCHOOL like you used to do at your family reunions: camera balanced on a shelf or TV, timer set, then a quick hop to the other end of the room to do some weird pose you think looks good like your blogger baes but actually looks like you’re constipated and/or having a heart attack. Mind you, this was also before I invested in a tripod, so times were good.
Post photo taking, I’d upload those babies to my computer, edit the ish outta ‘em to the point of no return (there is definitely not supposed to be that much contrast in a normal photo), then POST THEM IN A REALLY GREAT BLOG POST that was like nothing anyone had ever seen before.
You can see how this would get old. Fast. There are only so many ways you can inform people how to pair a dress with a pair of sandals before the jokes run dry and crumble. Plus, there’s that whole “I can’t actually afford to replenish my closet on the reg” thing, so my hawking consisted of really boring combinations from coveted locales like Charlotte Russe and the J Crew clearance rack from 2 years ago (try finding this cardigan, bitches – it’s SO UNIQUE YOU CAN’T EVEN BUY IT ANYMORE).
The truth is, I had half wanted to start a style blog, but really wanted to just write. I eventually gave up on the whole “look at this really cute outfit” thing because selfies with a self timer on a DSLR are way less fun than they sound. In exchange, I just started rambling – about my terrible dates via eHarmony, about getting hit on by a stranger with no teeth on a bus – you know, the usual fun adventures. And you know what? It started to feel real – like me. The actual me. The sometimes funny, mostly snarky, rambling and pun-loving me. And hey – I actually really liked the real me!
Of course, I wouldn’t necessarily suggest that everyone tell every sordid detail about their love life to the ether because that shit never goes away and now, after a few years, I’ve divulged WAY TOO MUCH personal information to random readers and simultaneously managed to offend my grandmother (who started reading it during my innocent styling days…sorrrrryyyyyyyy). BUT – writing on this whole blog thing has helped me to work through some shizz. It’s given me a platform to laugh at and with myself, and to find the humor in life instead of diving into, say, a hole of pity when date after date with no results makes you think you must look like Chewbacca.
I Prefer Heels isn’t a cute lil style spot anymore. In fact, a few years ago, I loaded up 90% of my heels into an IKEA bag and hauled them off to Goodwill. What was left was an empty closet just waiting to be reorganized and transformed (like I said, I’m into my late twenties – priorities shift).
Do I miss them? Hell no. Do you know how much more comfortable a nice pair of highly sexual Birkenstocks are?? OH MY GAWD, GET AT ME. I’ll never go back.
I don’t really wear heels anymore and I’m certainly not a partier anymore. The most I can handle is a beer on occasion, and usually I just stick to water (thanks hereditary migraines – NEAT!). When I do go out, it can’t be later than 7:30pm or I’ll just flat out fall asleep wherever I am. My bedtime is approximately 9:15pm each night and on the rare occasion I’m up later, it’s probably because I’m desperately trying to hang a gallery wall in my office and can’t get the damn nail to drive in correctly.
My life has become highly titillating in the five years since graduating college in that I spend my Saturdays rearranging my living room and splurging on a $70 plant because it “feels right.”
I’m boring, yup. I’m not that wild thang ready to go out on a moment’s notice and just LIVE IT UP. And yeah, some friendships have faltered because of that – and that’s ok. Because in reality, nothing’s changed. I’m still a smart ass with a story to tell (and frankly, a much more interesting one than how and where to don a pair of flare jeans).
Where I once coveted a pair of pink stilettos, I now only want to spend my days gardening and reading in my hammock. And writing – I’d like to keep doing that. So here’s to stickin’ with I Prefer Heels – and to becoming the 85 year old woman I long to be.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to feed my cat.