Castaways
There are many things we come to accept as we age: that zits do not depart, unfortunately, with puberty; fad dieting always — and I mean always — results in weight gain and a severe dip in self-esteem; and that, at some point in life, we have to accept that some people can run, walk and bake muffins in sky-high heels while others are just not heel people.
I, for one, can admit that I am not a heel person. That, of course, does not prohibit me from drooling over heels — a pair of Eley Kishimoto platforms in silver and snakeskin once practically sent me into an epileptic fit— nor does it stop me from spending mad amounts of money on shoes that spend more time in the closet than on my feet.
It occurred to me one night, as I padded across a filthy parking lot barefoot in search of my car one early Saturday morning after a friend’s birthday party, my shoes and purse cradled in my arms, that heels in fact weren’t my friend. They promised to slim my figure and elongate my legs. They wooed me with their fabulous styles and decadent embellishment (did I mention my favorite Eley pumps?) and pledged to flatter my ensemble.
Instead, they gave me bunions, protruding veins and an instep that throbbed each time it came in close contact with a pair of heels. Any heels, for that matter. Whenever I’d walk by a display window to sigh longingly at a pair of steep pumps with a staggeringly high heel, my feet seemed to snarl, “You’re not getting us into those any time soon, sister.”
Notice how most people in heels can barely enjoy themselves at a party? They’re too busy attempting to numb the pain from their footwear with endless shots of vodka. Once, I had to count the steps between my seat and the buffet table and debate whether another serving of filet mignon was worth walking about, oh, a dozen steps, give or take, in my painful stilettos. I’ve always been of the opinion that nothing should ever come between a girl and a good filet mignon. So I surreptitiously slipped off my fancy shoes, nonchalantly tiptoed to the serving table and walked back. And if my host raised an eyebrow at the sight of my bare feet, she was polite enough not to say anything as I hobbled past her with my plate piled high with food.
For our travel issue, it seemed apt to talk about appropriate footwear. Yes, a girl should always bring dressy shoes. What if you run into Rob Pattinson/ Zac Ephron / insert equally popular teen idol here and he offers to whisk you off to some fancy schmancy partay and you need to show up immaculately attired in a heartbreakingly awesome dress and equally extravagant shoes? Yes, a girl certainly needs to have one fail-safe outfit packed in her suitcase. But what about those other days? When your best friend insists on dragging you to every spot that Johnny Depp hung out in during his hedonistic, Kate Moss-dating years? Or you decide to tramp through every market in the region to hunt down some mythical bargain? Those wedge espadrilles may have seemed like a good idea when you were packing and imagining romantic adventures in some faraway land but when you’re tromping through half of Bangkok or, say, New Delhi, with a purse the size of a Mini Cooper, your shoes stopped being romantic the moment you crossed the threshold between crippling agony and bleeding toes. Okay, I exaggerate. My toes have never bled. But you get the idea.
The next time you travel, pack a few sandals and flats (unless you’re heading to the Arctic then snowboots are your friend — hold the heel, please). They should be able to keep you in fighting form so that you can enjoy every single moment of your vacation — while the rest of the heel-wearing folk will just have to enjoy theirs from the sidelines.
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E-mail me at jackieoflash@yahoo.com.
