The subway became dangerous. Even with my knees bent, like I was about to take off down the slopes, I could not keep my feet rooted to the car floor, knocking into my fellow passengers like a very apologetic pinball. I no longer simply sat in suddenly vacant seats — I collapsed.

I made it through to Thursday before donning my stilettos, the spindly things I was truly dreading. By then, being a shaky 5-foot-7 had made me a lot of things: blistered, very angry at the patriarchy, susceptible to infomercials selling leg-messaging chairs. When I slipped on the stilettos, I felt certain the heels were going to snap off, followed by my feet, like a Bratz doll. I tiptoed in slow motion to the subway, clinging to walls and beams for dear life.

When I got off the subway in the West Village, I was faced with yet another American Ninja Warrior-like challenge: cobblestones. I was already 10 minutes late to see a play, "running" at a glacial pace of one city block every five minutes, and chanting to myself, "Just keep swimming," like Dory in Finding Nemo, until I reached the theater and crumpled into my seat.

Two hours later, after a blissful seated break for the play, I wobbled back outside. A friend of a friend who moonlights as a drag queen insisted on correcting my heel-walking form. He advised me to keep my head up and attempt to "glide." He's not quite Michael Caine, but it helped — I felt more stable, less likely to fall into the nearby sewer grate. His helpful encouragement — shoulders back, walk heel-toe — carried me for three very slow blocks, before I ultimately found myself giving up and changing into my sneakers. I decided to never put those stilettos on my feet again.