In my previous life, I was a heel wearer. A pretty high high-heel wearer. I could wear those suckers all day at work. I could run down the hall to the copy machine or to catch a train. I probably could have even worked out in them. With no problems. These days, my footwear of choice are either something resembling that of a senior citizen’s orthopedic or hush puppies.
Last year, DH and I went into NYC with friends of ours. You cannot go into NYC looking like a shlump. So, I went to TJ Maxx and bought myself the cutest high heels that I could find in my size. And that I thought I could manage.
My gorgeous niece, who happens to be an amazing and talented hair dresser wears shoes that are about 3 inches taller than this all day at work. So I know she would just roll her eyes at me and say that these are nothing. To her and many other 20-somethings they ARE nothing. To me, it’s like wearing a torture device that resembles that of a nail bed sticking into the balls of my feet.
We drove into the city. I wore them starting from home and all through dinner. At this point, I want to cry. I am already a wobbling, limping idiot. But I didn’t want to take them off for fear of not being able to get them on again. When we were at dinner, I sat there with my legs crossed tightly because I was afraid to walk to the bathroom which happened to be upstairs. When I finally realized I had to give in or REALLY embarrass myself, I stared at that staircase in fear. As if I were going to be walking to my execution. And when I just could not possibly hold it any longer, I looked like a drunk three-toed sloth. Might I add, we were in a really trendy, pishy-poshy eating establishment whose clientele was young enough to be my children. And I looked like a complete ass.
After we finished dinner, we decided to walk to the comedy club. Why I agreed is beyond me. I should have hailed a cab. I was so desperate to NOT walk, that I would have thrown myself in front of one just to stop the pain.
Since then, I have tried to wear them on a night out again. But the thought creates such anxiety I need a Xanax. So I settle on my orthopedics. What can I say? I rock those orthos. And my feet have thanked me time and time again.