It’s all over,… I arrived (by foot) at the dreaded moment.
Over the past 12 months, I’ve stuck my head in the sand,… tried gallantly to go on, but each time the regret has been big.
Here’s how it rolls…
A rare night out,… I’ve frocked up, slapped on some lippy and slipped into high heels.
Everything is fine at first,… then after arriving at the function… I realize my feet have already started pleading with me to release them from the medieval torture devices I’ve encased them in.
Now usually a short burst of heels is manageable and I escape with one or two bandaid-ed toes, but if there is more than 100 metres of forward ambulation or any extended period of standing required – its not going to end well.
A little while ago, I went to see the crazy talented Matt O’Kine for the Sydney Comedy Festival with my daughter, our hotel was just a 20 minute walk from the venue. For some stuuuuuupid, misguided ‘I wanna look cool in the city’ reason… I wore my favourite heels*.
Pretty quickly , each step screeched a new octave of pain at me and when I, finally, hobbled into to the venue I was ready to cut my own feet off with a spatula.
Once seated, I took my gorgeous shoes off and surveyed the damage: peeling skin, mangled heels – like lamb shanks,… with toes.
And the only thing I could think of was ‘how-the-fuck-am-I-walking-back?’
My sensible-shoe-wearing 17 year old daughter gladly offered me her socks,****
which I slipped on after the show, bracing myself and begging her to walk slowly.
The problem was, the damage was done and walking (even slowly with socks on) was excruciating.
So there was only one thing for it: incomprehensible on one of Sydney’s busiest streets on a Saturday night, where vomit is visible, drunken bodily fluids are common, let alone broken glass…
…I had to walk barefoot.
Unlike days at the races, when it’s acceptable to slip off the heels, feel the soft grass underfoot and casually dangle them in one hand with a champers in the other, this felt all kinds of wrong.
Back at the hotel it took 20 minutes to scrub my feet clean in the bath, I felt dirty for days and I was genuinely concerned about catching something nasty through my festy feet.
When you look in your wardrobe and the Converse, Dr Martins, Birkenstocks and sneakers outnumber your heels and you’ve spent a night absorbing the filth of the city through your soles on a Saturday night,… it’s time to face facts.
It’s been fun, but soz heels, it’s over. I’m too old, I don’t care enough to wear you… and comfort has become a ‘thing’.
There, I said it,… It’s time to embrace sensible footwear*****
*Grey leather Mary Janes with a fat, wooden 4 inch heal and made even more special because Boofhead** saw them in a shop window and pointed them out to me***.
**Boofhead is my loveable, boofy bloke
*** He won’t be happy I’ve told you that.
**** When I say “gladly’”- I mean “hating on me massive”
***** I can’t believe I just said that.