High heels may be the most irresistibly ridiculous invention ever.
I didn't participate in the high heels fad in high school. And I barely did it in college. Only for special ceremonies would anyone catch me in ankle-twisting stilettos. But as an adult, I find my obsession with spikey shoes growing at an unparalleled pace.
Fire engine red, Katie's kayak blue, snowy white and cosmopolitan berry, - whatever that means - I can't resist a shoe of every color. Or any color.
So I've finally made my graceful ascension into the stereotype of all stereotypes - women have no money...blah blah...something about too many shoes.
Well, it's not like this sickness was something I wanted as a burden.
I have to look at those shoes every morning and decide which ones will torment me for the next 10 hours.
The three-and-a-half reds? No, too much walking today, I don't need a Charley horse during lunch.
How about the 2-inch pinkies? They match perfectly with that shirt (totally a coincidence).
It's that or the most comfortable slip-on shoes I've ever owned, in which my sister recently called "butch." Albeit, I laughed, because they did look pretty man-ish next to my reds with the cute little buckle, but I think I'll be retiring those now.
So I sigh while meticulously applying what my brother-in-law refers to as "war paint" each morning, because I know I can't wear the comfortable ones. It's the heels or bust.
Who invented high heels anyway?
It certainly wasn't a woman - no woman would voluntarily put herself through such torture.
At first, it's great. You're looking good; the heels look perfect with your carefully planned ensemble.
But make sure you've given yourself a pedicure recently, or your toenails will feel like they are being shoved into the bones of your feet. Not pretty.
And you might want to wrap your pinky toes in gauze - in two hours, those little puppies will feel completely skinned.
If you walk more than three minutes at a time, you'd better practice putting your weight anywhere but the balls of your feet. Don't even try standing in one place for more than 10 minutes; it will feel more like you've been in a tribal firewalking ceremony.
Keep in mind that if you're actively protecting the balls of your feet, your lower back will eventually feel like someone whacked you repeatedly with a tree branch.
And your calves ... your poor calves. There's no way around it, they will be mincemeat - memories of three-a-day volleyball practices viciously flood back. The intense soreness, the immediate regret, and the sobbing that ensues when just a toe meets the hard floor.
If you're going out with your significant other that night, you might as well bring the butch shoes. If he loves you, he'll stay regardless of the heel height.
What he won't love is walking at a caterpillar's pace around the mall because you're straggling along like a broken robot.
"I told you not to wear those shoes. How fantastic do they look now?"
Of course, they still look fantastic. It's your body that won't work. Because your pinky toe is numb, so your balance is topsy-turvy, and you are certain the balls of your feet are no longer covered in skin, and putting weight on your heels instantly begins a fainting spell, and you're struggling through the worst calf spasms in high heel history.
But it's worth it. The girl at the checkout counter sees the pain in your eyes. She sympathizes. She's been there. She knows just what you need. With a warm smile and eyes wide with envy, she gives you a reason to fight through the burning, aching, and general agony, and trudge on in your favorite three-and-a-half inch fire engine reds.
"Love your shoes!"
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Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Cuckoo Zone
A few months ago I coined my very own phrase. This came during the mad rush of the presidential election. I was deep in thought, pondering on the state of things, when it suddenly came to me.
"They are so busy celebrating a win, they have yet to realize they lost."
Unfortunately, my little quote not only applies to my political arch nemeses, but to a broad spectrum of people - people we all encounter on a daily basis.
Which brings me to my point - there are way too many people out there that have no idea what they are talking about.
Everybody knows one - a friend, an in-law, maybe even a co-worker. And I know you do the same thing I do when they get started. While simultaneously listening to their bucket of crazy and contemplating your own retaliation, your hands tremble, heartbeat picks up, breathing stops, and you clench your jaws to avoid sighing as loudly as possible, and all you can hear in your mind is this high-pitched screaming.
Oh yes, the inner monologue scream. And you're just hoping your face doesn't reflect your thoughts during this private screaming session.
Of course you don't want to listen, but it's like a train wreck. You won't go to another room, or anything else, simply because you feel this morbid desire to rant to someone - anyone - about what idiotic things they said after they are gone.
Even if by third or fourth person, when I hear about someone saying something that makes absolutely no sense, I can't keep my composure.
"So you're telling me that he said you can get cancer if a dog licks you because canine saliva has fecal toxins in it? Are you kidding me right now?"
The worst part is, you can't correct these people. They won't have it.
You could argue to the death, and they will still be 100-percent certain that this person, who has done no research whatsoever, is a reliable source.
"Well, I just don't think he'd lie about something like that."
No, probably not. He's probably just an idiot.
And that's what gets me. These people are so satisfied with themselves, because they think they look intelligent, or feel they've given you vital information, that they won't yield to the possibility that their information could be misguided, or - shock of all shocks - wrong.
You could resurrect Jesus and ask him to put the final nail in evolution's coffin, and they'd still say, "Well, I just don't know. It made sense to me."
Well, Britney Spears appears to be a good mother at times, but that doesn't mean I just allow her to dupe me so unceremoniously.
So, in honor of my New Year's resolution, I vow not to argue. I promise not to correct. Because, after all, it's useless.
When they are lost in smugness over their "obvious" win, just smile, and always remember to keep your wits about you when they start their crazy. As my good friend, Ron Burgundy said once, while arguing over the origin of a certain city name: "Agree to disagree."
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
"They are so busy celebrating a win, they have yet to realize they lost."
Unfortunately, my little quote not only applies to my political arch nemeses, but to a broad spectrum of people - people we all encounter on a daily basis.
Which brings me to my point - there are way too many people out there that have no idea what they are talking about.
Everybody knows one - a friend, an in-law, maybe even a co-worker. And I know you do the same thing I do when they get started. While simultaneously listening to their bucket of crazy and contemplating your own retaliation, your hands tremble, heartbeat picks up, breathing stops, and you clench your jaws to avoid sighing as loudly as possible, and all you can hear in your mind is this high-pitched screaming.
Oh yes, the inner monologue scream. And you're just hoping your face doesn't reflect your thoughts during this private screaming session.
Of course you don't want to listen, but it's like a train wreck. You won't go to another room, or anything else, simply because you feel this morbid desire to rant to someone - anyone - about what idiotic things they said after they are gone.
Even if by third or fourth person, when I hear about someone saying something that makes absolutely no sense, I can't keep my composure.
"So you're telling me that he said you can get cancer if a dog licks you because canine saliva has fecal toxins in it? Are you kidding me right now?"
The worst part is, you can't correct these people. They won't have it.
You could argue to the death, and they will still be 100-percent certain that this person, who has done no research whatsoever, is a reliable source.
"Well, I just don't think he'd lie about something like that."
No, probably not. He's probably just an idiot.
And that's what gets me. These people are so satisfied with themselves, because they think they look intelligent, or feel they've given you vital information, that they won't yield to the possibility that their information could be misguided, or - shock of all shocks - wrong.
You could resurrect Jesus and ask him to put the final nail in evolution's coffin, and they'd still say, "Well, I just don't know. It made sense to me."
Well, Britney Spears appears to be a good mother at times, but that doesn't mean I just allow her to dupe me so unceremoniously.
So, in honor of my New Year's resolution, I vow not to argue. I promise not to correct. Because, after all, it's useless.
When they are lost in smugness over their "obvious" win, just smile, and always remember to keep your wits about you when they start their crazy. As my good friend, Ron Burgundy said once, while arguing over the origin of a certain city name: "Agree to disagree."
-------
Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.
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