Over the years I've inflicted my fair share of pain, both onto myself and others. After a particularily brutal weekend involving 4 inch heels (self-inflicted) and a drunkenly overzealous tete a tete (inflicted onto a poor unsuspecting other), I hobbled to work Monday morning contemplating the physical torture we endure for the sake of fashion.
Easy and comfortable are often synonymous with mundane and ugly. I'll take sore legs over a night of comfortable shoes any day and I'm not alone. One friend likens wearing her Balmain gladiators to being punched repeatedly in the lower back, but is quick to add, "still worth it."
Aside from starving, waxing, tweezing and other general masochistic bodily upkeep we enthusiastically endure, why do we love the things that make our lives hell? There's an expectation that the truly noteworthy pieces are the most uncomfortable in order to prove their elite status. Sacrificing the most basic needs of comfort for an unconditional love of fashion is inexplicably exciting and brings a raw sense of meaning to a mostly aspirational, untouchable industry. The things that make us cringe in pain, the too-tight denim, the half-size too small shoes, become badges of honor proudly displayed along side shredded feet and scarred knees.
The greater the pain, the greater the reward. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
