I, like every other card-carrying, self-proclaimed fashionista, love beautiful heels. As it turns out, and as the title of this post suggests, shoes are also the bain of my existence. This post came to mind today when I put on a pair of shoes this morning that I have only worn one other time. The memory of my last sashay in these shoes was so painful that it has been over a year since I was able to dull the memory enough to brave them again. So far, they are not nearly as excrutiating as I remember. This is more than likely due to my flare for drama when it comes to pain.
This episode got me thinking about shoes and the ridiculous adventures that I have endured because of my love. Most of these stories are permantly memorialized by my family, who are not as smitten with fashion as I, and who see my shoe fetish as crippling (quite literally). Nonetheless, I thought it appropriate to further commemorate my idiotic moments while standing sky-high.
I have multiple scars from falling down in heels. The worst culprits are platforms for me as they seem to give me a false sense of security. One Friday after coming home early from work, I was walking up my driveway in a pair of Vince Camuto platforms when I rolled my ankle. I thought I could save myself from falling despite the fact that my hands were full. This was a mistake. I tumbled to the ground, scraping my knee, the heel of my hand, and (of all places) the top of my ankle. When I say the top of my ankle, I am talking about the part of your ankle that you see when you look down at your feet where the foot joins to the shin. How on earth you acquire a scrap there is beyond me but I managed it beautifully. I was in so much pain I wouldn't even clean out the wounds. To add insult to injury (no pun intended), there were group of teenagers walking by and as they attempted to surprise there laugh, which they certainly could have done better, they offered to help me up. I felt like the old lady who just fell down and broke her hip. Still have scars, still have mortification.
Another less embarrassing, more ridiculous tale involves a pair of boots and a blizzard. About two years ago Colorado was bombarded with three blizzards within a week and a half period and then we had significant snowfall for two weeks after that. I had subjected myself to entirely too many days of flats and I was over it. So, while venturing on a snowy date with my then-boyfriend, I pulled on a pair of modest boots with only about a 2 1/2 inch heel. Mistake. On the way to his apartment, I thought myself stable enough to climb over the snow drift that blocked his sidewalk. Everyone can predict that I slipped and scraped my bum along the cold, sharp ice. I felt so ridiculous that I just sat on the ground on giggled, my chapped butt freezing to the parking lot. My date attempted several times to help me up, but I was too riddled with the giggles to even bring his attempts to fruition. Finally, he resignedly sat down next to me and waited for the hysterics to dissipate.By the way La Haine means the hate (it's also a French movie). I felt it was appropriate.
Images courtesy of http://www.net-a-porter.com/.
No comments:
Post a Comment