Some of us were left drooling, earlier this week, when we spotted the teetering, space-age platforms/heels that were unveiled by Alexander McQueen at Paris Fashion Week. His bejeweled platform-clog amalgamations were the first thing I noticed while browsing a slideshow of images from McQueen’s runway show (see image #3). I imagined myself walking into Orchestra Hall this evening, waving hi to Judy Dayton as I strutted along in these bad boys—a bold statement meets a mighty workout, by anyone’s measure.

And thank goodness, there’s more where that came from. This week, McQueen unleashed a small army of 12-inch heels upon the unsuspecting masses, most of whom were left coveting their own pair even as their arches, ankles, and backs flared with sympathy pains. (Those poor models!) So of course, The New York Times took note and prepared the inevitable opinion package on the trans- and de-formative powers of high-heeled footwear. A package of commentators—six women, one man—is careful not to leave any perspective unexplored: you’ll find the requisite feminist blogger, the frivolous decorative arts curator, the podiatrist who goes tsk-tsk.

But there’s some thoughtful stuff in there, too. I liked the quote from former Cosmo editor Helen Gurley Brown, found near the end of the piece, about women being no worse than men at making decisions—we just have more choices in footwear! I also learned that the shoes we wore as young adults have a greatest effect on the feet we’re stuck with later in life. For what it’s worth, this means I get to be hopeful for my future. I’m a child of the ’90s, the grunge era. My formative years were spent in Doc Martens and Birkenstocks, and I was an athlete to boot. But then, in the mid ’90s, I was seduced by a beautiful pair of mid-’90s-style platforms (purchased at Heavenly Soles). Later, my best friend would counsel me to “become a woman” by embracing heels. These days, I’m more likely than ever to wear the uncomfortable shoes. But because I’m a marathon runner and plantar fasciitis survivor, I’m protective of my hooves and gams. By day, I usually travel in flats while hauling my heels in an over-sized handbag. (Either way, I lose with the chiropractor.) But come evening, once my cathartic run is complete and the yoga mat is rolled away, once the arm is hooked with the boyfriend’s and the two of us are making an entrance, I wouldn’t dream of wearing anything but heels. They make me feel more glamorous, more feminine, taller. And this way, I get to sleep off the foot pain. Long live heels!