Saturday, October 3, 2009

Hell on Heels

Dear Self,
Remember this story I'm about to tell you. This isn't the first time I've warned you about wearing heels. And yet you don't listen.
So last night night you had a fancy event to go to. You picked out a cute dress, and decided you wanted to wear those new heels you got. You know, those poorly made $18 heels you found at the clearance rack at DSW? The black ones with the laces and cut out in the middle (that looked kinda sorta like this) with a heel higher than you have ever worn before? You said they were so comfy sitting down. You were right. Plus they were cheap. So you ignored their flaws and impracticality and bought them. And you kind of loved them. So you decided to wear them last night.
Big mistake. You hobbled from the car to the party like a drunk Barbie doll, taking small, calculated steps and holding onto everything in sight for support. You arrive at the party, ready to sit down and nibble on whatever vegetarian options they had.
It's a mingling event.
As in, no chairs.
Hooooly crap.
So you walk carefully, knowing that at some point during the night you will do one or more of the following:
a) Trip and fall
b) Trip, grab something/one for support, and have them topple down with you
c) Trip and break your ankle
d) Trip, fall, hit your head and kill yourself.
All for a pair of really cute shoes... So you gather all the courage you have (after all, despite the problems these shoes cause, they make you look tall and pretty awesome), and suck it up. You mingle, you chat, you eat faux-fancy food, and all the while your feet hurt more and more.
So you take to the habit of teetering on the balls of your feet and rotating your feet around in place, trying to a less-tender spot to rest on.
Then something happens. One of your legs kind of bends a little, and you think you know why. Your heel broke. You investigate. It didn't break. But it did bend so that it will probably be permanently bent, at least when you put pressure on it. You're shocked. Upset. You feel betrayed by your fun, spontaneous purchase.
Luckily the party is winding down. You walk even more slowly out of the venue, grabbing at columns and walls for support. You find a table and sit on it uncouthly, tugging at your heels ferociously. They come off. You moan in delight and pain. You look at your feet. They have red imprinted markings on them where the laces were. You leave and walk outside barefoot.
Never has the grass felt so nice on your bare feet.
So, Self, I hope you've listened intently. Just remember this next time you take those heels out for a spin, or find another cheap thrill at DSW. Neither will last...

PS: You need to learn to walk in heels so you don't look like Bambi taking her first steps. Seriously.

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