On Tuesday night, a friend and I were treated to a mouthwatering dinner at a very “shi-shi” restaurant in downtown Toronto.
Of course, the big question was, “what do I wear?” You have to understand that for the past two years of writing, many of my days have been spent in striped pajama bottoms, one of my husband’s T-shirts that seldom matched my stylish waist-down apparel and a pair of comfy and practical “Walking on a Cloud” sandals that have become my slipper of choice. My gramma called this kind of outfit, “soft” clothes and I have found this ensemble to be perfect for working in my “office” – slouched over a laptop on my living room couch.
So, you can appreciate that venturing out for a night of exquisite dining in a brand new, never been worn (this was my first mistake) pair of wedge heeled sandals was quite the undertaking for me.
But it seemed like a great idea at the time.
As we made our way down to the big city, I decided to wear a pair of what I called, “Plan B” sandals that were less challenging for me – I figured it would be a good idea to ” slowly work my way up” to the high heeled sandals – but as I walked downtown, the straps started rubbing on the sides of my feet and I got two bothersome blisters. It was time to pull out the big guns. I held onto my friend and awkwardly slipped the tall, wedge-heeled sandals onto my feet.
Well, I didn’t even walk five steps before I started teetering back and forth, barely being able to keep my balance. My girlfriend was laughing so hard, she couldn’t stand up straight.
“Diane – heel …toe…hold onto me.”
It was pathetic. My toes were all crunched together, my wide feet were pouring out the sides of the sandal, my calves were one muscle fibre away from a major spasm and all I could think about what how much it was going to hurt when I went over my already damaged ankles, resulting from my gymnastic days.
About ten steps later, I gave up. Right then and there, I pulled off the dumb shoes, threw them in my bag and put my Plan B sandals back on my feet Meanwhile, the blisters had been ripped off with the wedge shoes.
All dignity was gone.
I stuffed some pieces of kleenex into my sandals for relief and tried to look calm and collected. I limped down Front Street amidst the beautiful people – they, adorned in their custom made suits and pencil skirts and I, hobbling in my Plan B shoes, like a wounded bird.
We finally made it to our destination or so we thought – unfortunately, we went 54 floors up to the wrong tower.
My feet were screaming and I shuffled to the bathroom to survey the damage.
At the moment of greatest exasperation, I found two bandaids in my purse. Hallelujah!…and once we found the right elevator in the right building, I enjoyed a magnificent dinner as I hid my aching feet under the table cloth.
The next morning, my friend and I had a good laugh about crazy shoes for women. We went downstairs and got her daughter’s shoes and well…here’s my new look.
Bette Midler once said, “After thirty, a body has a mind of its own.” I think it happens after fifty but either way, my feet have spoken and I definitely need to listen.