I don't care if Leonardo Da Vinci designed them, or some sick husband who didn't want his wife to be able to walk properly. I don't care if a cobbler for the British Royal Court designed them, or God himself.
All I know, is two days after the fact, my feet are killing me.
I love shoes. If I could, I would buy a pair of shoes a week. Of sneakers.
Soft on my feet, and cushy on my soles.
Easy on and easy off. I can wear them for hours and they go perfectly with my jeans and basketball shorts.
Heels, on the other hand have been designed by the devil himself. The pain!
If I wanted my feet to feel like they are being stoned with fire, I would have lit them on fire and chucked rocks at them.
So why did I expose myself to the pain?
Because, apparently, this is what women do. They find the hottest pair of heels and wear them. Some people can ignore the pain, I'm not sure how. They must use pain numbing lotion or have no feeling below their knees.
The morning of the party I visited DSW and with four other women, also attending the party, we tossed boxes of shoes towards each other. I'm not sure how the five inch black patent leather shoes ended up in my possession; but I placed them on my feet, rolled up my jeans, and was immediately told to buy them.
 |
| My shoes are on the right. So beautiful, yet so painful. |
I was told they go with every dress, so I wouldn't have to do the mad scramble for shoes ever again.
I was told they were the sexiest shoes.
I listened.
I should have gone with the two inch heel. I should never have listened to those other women.
Had I been thinking, women do this to each other all the time. We compliment them in a way to break their feet so we can steal their shoes. Women are mean, but when it comes to shoes, we're down right vicious.
Apparently, I enjoy pain and being abused.
Pain is what I received, but my legs did look good.
I lasted the walk from the car to to Chris's Christmas party. It is two blocks, a walk I make all the time in the summer. I swear, the walk became longer in heels. Two blocks? Try seven miles.
My feet were killing me before we grabbed a plate of food. Ten minutes later, the shoes were off.
My friends stood there, staring at my bare feet, making fun of how I couldn't last thirty minutes. Five minutes later another woman had her heels off.
Health code enforcers made us put our heels back on, understanding that four hour heels do not exist.
Four hour heels, no. Four hour sneakers, hell yes.
For the entire night, I was slipping my shoes on and off as needed. Grimacing every time they went on, sighing with relief when they came off.
My toes and feet were beginning to look like a mangled mess. I'm pretty sure if it was possible, my toes would have broken off my foot. No, not break, but fall off my foot.
How badly did my feet hurt at the end of the night? I walked through Seattle Center in my bare feet. Yes, the idea of walking bare foot in Seattle seemed like a better idea then putting my gorgeous shoes back on.
I did put my shoes on when we approached the street.
Yes, I know I could have stepped on something, but my feet hurt so badly I didn't care. I never have that issue with my comfy sneakers.
Oh, and the women hoping to steal my heels when my feet broke from being jammed into the shoes, did not get my shoes. I guarded those suckers with my life. One day I'll want to wear them again, like next week.
No comments:
Post a Comment