I
love you pretty shoe. You are so beautiful - yet when I wear you and walk
ten steps, the excruciating pain you fill me with, leaves me with an
uncontrollable urge to rip you off my feet and smash you against a wall.
I
seem to have a love-hate relationship with shoes. Because I am a
half-size and I have rather thin feet, I seem to have quite a problem
finding shoes that fit, look amazing and are a dream to walk, stand and
run in. So far, apart from my absolute favourite and rather battered
pair of nude wedges from Banana Republic, I am at quite a loss.
Recently
I was invited for a super posh launch. So I spent the afternoon dolling
myself up, having my hair and nails done and donning a pair of
beautifully crafted leather heels, which although only worn twice, have
been stored for over a year (due to them not being too comfortable and
only bearable for short spurts). Unfortunately, being in storage didn’t
do my beautiful shoes any favours as they literally came apart when I
reached the venue and I had to scuttle around Orchard Road looking for the
perfect pair of wearable heels, which didn’t happen - so it was back home
for me, all decked out in my finery with nowhere to go.
During
the entire journey home, I fantasized about how I would smash my shoe
with my trusty hammer. Unfortunately when I got back home, my dear man
foiled my attempt at retribution by taking away the hammer and broken
shoe and promising to have it seen-to by the cobbler. Bah!
Several
of my friends swear that Ferragamo shoes are a dream to wear and in
desperation, I found myself at the said boutique. The staff were lovely
and helpful but to be quite frank, they were not as comfortable as I had
hoped (maybe its just me?) and I was not ready to fork out over $600
for a pair of shoes that would spend most of its life wrapped up in
tissue paper and stored in my wardrobe.
When
I see girls prancing about Orchard in sky-high stilettos with all the
dexterity and comfort of someone wearing flats, it gives me quite a case
of shoe-envy. When I watch movies where the heroine runs and kicks
zombie-ass while clad in a pair of vertiginous high heels, it makes
me call up my mother and blame her faulty genetic material.
I
give my cobbler so much business that the man knows me by my first name
and actually asks after my many pairs of shoes. He has stretched,
re-stretched and resoled so many of my shoes that he has formed quite a
bond with them.
Alas,
I may have to accept the fact that for some reason (maybe its age
catching up with me or just bad genes?) I am not as tolerant of the
discomfort felt when wearing high heeled shoes as I did in my 20’s.
Perhaps when we are in our teens and twenties, the nerve-endings in our
feet are not yet fully developed or perhaps they are simply anesthetized
with alcohol and a zest for life. Whatever the reason, now that I have
hit my 30’s I find wearing high heels as comfortable as performing
surgery on myself - sans the anesthetic.
LADY@LXG
