Women are unknowingly murdering the assumedly invincible sex drive of their significant others.
The wedge has a humble beginning, which can be traced back to a well-intentioned cobbler attempting to outfit his daughter with a shoe that would render her undesirable to potential suitors. He succeeded, but in the process provided a convenient aid in fetching wool fedoras and label-laden handbags from top shelves of closets. Soon women were leaving their homes while still wedged as it presented an effective method of eliminating advances from male onlookers. The wedge became a staple in thousands of women's otherwise aesthetically inoffensive wardrobes. Soon the wedge began to devolve into a more comfortable alternative to the ever-so-lovely heel. And before long the wedge was snuffing out libidos in unfortunate cities across the country.
The wedge is a hybrid. And hybrids are inherently evil. For example, the rap/rock band. Soiling the tastes of adolescent listeners innocently attending local music festivals. The iPad. Convincing yuppies that a device too large to carry around like a phone and incapable of handling the menial tasks of a laptop should be the foundation of any post-collegiate middle manager's technological harem. Even the hybrid car, while economical and admirably environmentally conscious, is made to resemble a mobile handheld vacuum with three SUVs' worth of blind spots.
The female form is one of delicacy. Elegance. Women are graceful creatures. Self-inflicted poisoning is a tragic end to a respectable sense of style. A well-assembled outfit is sabotaged by a tree stump strapped to a petite ankle. Even more insulting, the espadrille wedge--the wicker patio furniture of an otherwise tasteful home.
Women are confused by the male genitalia's response to the wedge. I offer this analogy...think of a man in a tank top. Or one of those t-shirts with the sleeves cut off. That's what men think of your wedges. Men are not as apathetic as we seem. We have stylistic needs from the opposite sex just as you do. We cherish the time spent resting our eyes from your ill-fitting boho chic maxi. We're careful to avoid direct contact with the retina-sodomizing print adorning your flowy blouse. And for this you should be thankful. We care. We offer answers to your desperate subconscious cries for help. Violently charming alternatives. Ankle boots. Wing tips. Non-ballet flats.
You have a choice. One with which you will have to live for 14-18 uninterrupted hours. Consider the consequences. Survey the options. Give your boyfriends back their erections.