We spent Thanksgiving dinner tonight with my inlaws, and for something completely different, I decided to dress up. For me, dressing up means putting on a pair of earrings, but tonight I thought I’d be a little crazy and actually slip on a pair of heels.
Yes. Crazy. And so is any woman who wears these elevated toe-torture devices on purpose.
For the past decade, I’ve rarely worn heels. If you glance below my knees you’ll find flip flops, sneakers, barefoot sports shoes, or better yet – just plain bare feet.
I’ll reluctantly trudge through a wedding in a pair of pumps, and I used to wear them to funerals until I realized my heels were doubling as lawn aerators. Since then, I switched to flats.
Don’t ask me why all of a sudden tonight I walked (or rather teetered) out my front door wearing a pair of painful pumps. I do stupid things all the time, and even stupider, I’ll eventually do it again sometime, even before the pain subsides.
The blisters were beginning to form on my left foot before I even put on the right heel. My toes were squeezed together creating an unnatural point that should only be reserved for elves. Forcing my feet into a permanent 45 degree downward angle made me feel like I was struggling to maneuver downhill on Lombard Street, and I’m sure my face was wincing at every step like I was in the throws of childbirth. Still, I soldiered on.
The heels came off in the car, were forced on again for the walk from the car to my inlaw’s Thanksgiving food line, then were stealthy kicked under the table for the duration of dinner.
I put them on again to stagger to the bathroom, where I inspected the welts across my toe knuckles.
Just the price of being a woman, I tried to tell myself.
Like those giraffe women in Africa who keep adding rings to their necks to make their necks longer.
Like the Chinese women who have their feet broken and bound so they’re forced into shoes made for Polly Pockets.
Or the tribal women who stretch their earlobes.
Like painful heels, that earlobe craze unfortunately is catching on.
After the Thanksgiving festivities, I contemplated walking barefoot back to the car, but it was dark, and I wasn’t sure if stepping on potential twigs, rocks or glass would be more painful than just wearing the heels for 100 feet.
I think walking barefoot on hot coals would have been a more pleasant journey.
By the time I returned home, I probably should have either chucked the heels directly into the garbage can or donated them back to the charity I bought them from. After all, the insole still had the $4.95 price tag from when I purchased the shoes from American Way two years ago. But the heels look nice and kind of classy, so in my silly, optimistic mind I visualized myself with feet a half size smaller and thinner, slipped into these lovely pumps, giving the optical illusion that my legs are sexy, slender but muscular, tan, and free from hair and varicose veins. I prance around on these fantasy stilettos like a statuesque supermodel, rather than wobble on them like the uncoordinated klutz I am.
Then I woke up and grabbed the Bandaids for my popped blisters.
I figured since Thanksgiving is the biggest day of the year for giving thanks, I might extend that gratitude publicly by saying I am very VERY thankful I do not have to wear heels to work. Sure I could be some high-powered lawyer, a CFO for a Fortune 500 company, or a Tea Party staffer, but you couldn’t pay me enough money to put on heels every day.
You also couldn’t pay me enough money to be a Tea Party staffer even if I didn’t have to wear heels every day.
It has been ten weeks since I’ve had time to write a new blog, and I have the good fortune of steady work to blame as the reason for my lack of posts. But one of the best things about my job is that I do it from home.
I am a sound editor, and not only do I not have to wear heels, I don’t have to wear anything at all, except for a pair of headphones. On hot summer days I’ve even contemplated such attire, but I’m always afraid that might be the day the Gas Man comes to check the meter, takes a peek through my bedroom window and spots me with just my birthday suit and headphones and then tells all the other Gas Men around the water cooler about me, and then they might all try to get his route.
Not to take a peek at the naked gal with the headphones. To ask me where they can get a gig like mine.
Granted, Gas Men have the kind of job where they’re lucky enough not to wear heels, but to get away with not even having to wear clothes – now that’s a great gig!