My High Heels in New York City
I bought my fave high heels a good five years ago. They are my go-to heels. You have a pair of go-to heels, right?
Well, these go-to heels of mine have been worn a lot, like, to weddings, bridal showers, and to every single conference I’ve ever attended in the past two years.
Most recently I packed them for my trip to New York City for that little shindig better known as BlogHer.
Since they’re my blah-blah-blah go-to [motherfucking] heels I thought to myself, “Self, you can totally walk eleven blocks to your first gig of the weekend.”
I channeled my inner Carrie Bradshaw and took off out of the high rise hotel, not even batting a lash at my flip-flops. Surely my yadda-yadda-yadda go-to [God damned] heels would be fine on my feet for not one, but TWO jobs. Yeah, sure. What’s that saying? Denial’s not just a river in Egypt or some crap, eh?
I started walking.
“This is fine,” I thought to myself.
Two blocks in.
“Yeah, this is totally fine. Look at you in your black dress, red lipstick, curly hair, and patent leather heels.”
Four blocks in.
“Fuck. I hate sweating.”
Six blocks in.
“Holy shit, Mishelle! Carrie. Bradshaw. For real? She’s like ninety pounds soaking wet. She floats in heels. You’re, like, well, you’re NOT ninety pounds soaking wet. Holy fucking hell.”
Eight blocks in.
“Boy it sure was nice of that guy with the exotic accent to hit on me, but GOD DAMMIT my feet hurt like a mother fucker. Thank God, I brought those flip flops with me. Oh wait! I.didn’t.bring.them.with.me. Great.”
Ten blocks in.
“These stupid go-to heels can suck it.”
Finally I reached my destination. I swallowed the pain, and even went barefoot for a while until I was told to put them back on because I was a liability or something. I swallowed more of pain without even a lick of alcohol that night, either.
I had to dig really deep down to get through it.
After all was said and done, I jumped barefoot into a New York Taxicab. I told my friends that I didn’t care if I got some strange zombie virus from the nasty floorboard, and that if I died (because, you know the zombie virus kills you rather quickly) they should tell my kids and husband that I loved them.
I was done with those damn heels. D-O-N-E, done.
Moral of the story: Wear comfortable shoes when you are walking around in New York City, no matter how sexy you want to look. Because if you don’t, you’ll get blisters, and your feet will hurt a lot. Go to heels, or not.
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