Saturday I donned pinstripe Gaultier hotpants with a sequin top and matching vest for my younger sister's birthday party. The unofficial theme for the party was Glitter and Doom, so naturally I had to dress like a maniac, which means the only acceptable shoe for this was obviously the pinstripe, two strap, platform with patent leather accents from Bordello that I bought on an impulse about a month ago.
The trip down three flights of stairs was precarious at best, and as I stood with my fiance and friend, I wondered if I would make the whole night in these shoes.
Sure, they looked amazing, but the toes on my right foot were going numb and I had a cramp in the arch of my left foot. I felt like I was in pointe shoes again, and forgot the lambswool in the toe.
At one point the pain got to the point where I actually considered running back upstairs and changing my shoes.
"But you've never worn those," my fiance said, "So you're defeated by your shoes?"
What? Defeated? No way. There's not a heel high enough to totally defeat me. I always say that a few hours of pain is a small price to pay for looking good, and oh, did those shoes look good.
So I stood tall, and took very small steps all night, and by the time we got to the bar my shoes were broken in enough that the no longer hurt. Around the time everyone's feet started hurting, I had enough cocktails to make sure they no longer hurt.
By the end of the night I was still walking tall (as if I had a choice), but the pace had slowed down to a snail's pace and I'm pretty sure that my feet were starting to fuse with the shoes. Even after I took the shoes off my feet stayed pointed at an awkward and somewhat painful angle, and I flopped into bed with a sigh of pain and relief.
My feet may have hurt for two days afterward, and they did nothing for my pedicure, but they looked good, and Saturday night I knew what it was like to be tall and leggy, even if it was just a pinstriped facade.