Naijawife has presented the case to me from every angle:
“It’s the subjugation of the female gender!”
“Do you want me to suffer under the cruel heel of masculine oppression engendered by these masochistic shoes?”
“Do you want me to develop corns on my toes?” “Do you want me to have clawed feet when I get older and have to walk with a cane?”
“If I fall and break my neck nko? What will you tell my family?!”
I’m certain that within my email inbox lies the complete collection of every newspaper article and scientific journal note discussing the effects of heels on women’s feet, backs, balance, fertility…and overall sanity.
Don’t get me wrong. I agree with everything the experts have to say…
But I still want her to wear them.
Truth is, I could care less what the result will inevitably be from wearing heels. I wish she’d wear them to work, I wish she’d wear them while doing chores…I even wish she’d wear them to bed.
If she likes she should continue protesting and sending me articles. Fact still remains that I. LIKE. THEM.
Because when she wears them, all I see is
I’ve talked about the battles we have in our home over the television, but there are many other regular skirmishes over this heels issue. Usually, when the weekend rolls around, the wife and I will have some event to go to. On such days, Naijawife will model for me (she likes to do that) to show me a few potential outfits and ask “What do you think?”
I’ll nod, smile (as I think she wants me to) but, as usual will ask: “So…which shoes are you going to wear them with?”
She’ll sigh. She knows where this is going.
She’ll leave and return to the room with two pairs of shoes in hand. One pair of flats. One pair of heels.
“I could wear this” she’ll say, putting the flats on, smiling ear to ear to show me how happy she is that her feet are close to the ground.
She’ll frown in return…and then she’ll put on the pair of heels.
She, however, will continue frowning and then exaggeratedly lurch over to me, intent on getting me to change my mind. “Look NH I can’t balance in these! If I wear these I’ll have to pack a pair of flats to change into anyway! My purse is too small to carry another pair of shoes! If we start dancing I won’t be able to dance much because by the time we get there my feet will already be paining me! Do you want me to have to sit the whole time? You’ll have to literally carry me back home!”
There’s no point to her charade because I will, as always, simply state:
“Wear the heels.”
But trust my NaijaWife. If I win that argument, she’ll wear the heels to make me happy…but I’ll inevitably suffer for it afterwards.
We’ll get home tired from whatever event it was. She’ll be talking my ear off about “Did you see how they made her kneel to feed him the cake? Why did the DJ keep cutting off the music like that? Our DJ was much better! I told her to go with me recommendation!” Then she’ll remove every item she’s wearing, and make a big show of limping over to me on the chair.
“Ouch! Ouch!” My leg o!” she’ll wail, as she sits next to me.
Then she’ll raise her feet up on my lap and smile.
I’ll smile back. pretending I don’t understand.
She’ll smile harder, wink, cough a bit and nudge me with her foot.
I’ll pretend I don’t know what she’s on about for a while longer. Then I start massaging.
The punishment for insisting she wear heels won’t stop there. The party may have been on a Saturday, but by Sunday she’ll claim she’s suffering from back ache “caused by the excessive hip rotations brought on by the heels” and she needs a back massage. By Friday she’ll convince me that she has to head to the spa, “to prepare her body for Saturday’s heel wearing.”
And just as the sun rises every day, another invitation to an event will arrive in the household of Naijahusband and Naijawife. She’ll parade around the house again in her outfit of choice. She’ll fight me over the shoes she plans to wear, but eventually, as always, I will say:
Wear the heels.