If you know me, then you know that I love high heels. When I was five years old my Uncle Erik, a photographer, brought my sisters and me a giant bag of out-of-this-world power lady pumps left over from a photo shoot. Since it was the ’80s, they were all jewel tone satin with rhinestone details around the toe or heel – a little girl/drag queen dream. I’d prance around the house in them from my bowl of Kix til my 8pm bedtime. It was the beginning of a love affair that has spanned continents, literally.

In ’04 I studied abroad in Florence, Italy. In our pre-arrival documents sent from the college was a list of DO NOT PACK items, among them, in bold, spiky heels. You’ll kill yourself walking on the cobblestone streets of the city in anything but a chunky heel or flat, they warned. I packed four pair of stilettos and bought two more at the Prada outlet over the course of my semester. I’d rather walk slowly than wear flats. Hell, I’d rather fall on my face than wear flats.

In my attempt at a defense, there are reasons for this obsession that go beyond “high-heels-are-super-cute.”

1. I’m only 5’5″, so my heels are often confidence boosters, a way to maintain my place in a height-centric world.

2. I have an extremely long torso and extremely stubby legs, so I need the heels for their unparalleled leg-lengthening abilities (especially a nude heel…my god does that work wonders).

And 3. Some skirts/pants/dresses/rompers/gowns look ridiculous with the wrong shoe choice (read: a flat). This may seem like an opinion, but if you know shoes, you know it’s a fact.

And yet tonight, despite my fashion judgment and the fact that the little dress I’m wearing looks really good with my purple suede platforms, (you knew this was coming…) I’ll be wearing flats.

R is a man of wonderful height, but he’s not the tallest guy in the room. If I’m in 5″ heels, we’re the same height, if I’m in 4″ heels, I may as well be wearing the 5 inchers, and if I’m in 3″ heels I may as well be wearing flats.

He’s never said he doesn’t like my shoes (though he has mentioned that he thinks I have three pair of the exact same shoes…which I obviously don’t), but I know he prefers to hug me at a certain height. He did not and would never ask me to wear the flats tonight, but I know he’d like to reach for my hand and find it slightly lower than his own.

So for those two mini reasons, I’m leaving the heels home tonight.

It’s a simple thing…stupid even…but when I think about what it means to love someone, this trivial decision holds legitimate meaning.

There was a time when I’d say, “whatever! I’m an independent woman, and I’ll wear whatever height footwear makes me feel best.” Now what feels best – especially on this particular Hallmark holiday – is making R feel his best too. It’s a different “best” than a killer pair of high heels can inspire, but isn’t that what the search for true love is really all about? Finding a way to one-up the way it feels to love a pair of shoes with the way it feels to love a human being?

Happy Valentine’s day to you all!