Posts Tagged ‘high heels’

A lot of people I’ve met from other states think life is really like “Sex in the City.” Yeah. Right. I’m a writer (like Carrie Bradshaw) and an editor and I have noooo problem affording Manolo Blahniks by the truck full with my salary. Yeah. Right.

And, of course, I’m more than happy to strut down NY sidewalks and streets in said expensive heels. (I’m not saying “Yeah. Right,” again here because I’m tired of it now. But you can infer I’m sneering and rolling my eyes.)

Have you ever looked closely at a NY street or sidewalk? I mean, really looked. If you’ve only seen them via TV, probably not. Let me assure you, they are full of potholes, cracks, crevices, grating and sticky wads of gum and other things I’d rather not look at closely and wouldn’t ask you to either.

So, when Sarah Jessica Parker’s Carrie was tripping along her way in stilettos, I guarantee you she would, in reality, off camera, be tripping a long way. It’s fine if you only walk from your limo to the entrance of some event, usually padded with red carpeting. But for the real women of NY …

Here’s the real deal: I’m meeting a guy for a first date at a restaurant a few blocks from my apartment. I’m wearing a fab little black dress, clingy, but not slutty, and my killer red high heels with a black stripe down the sides (O.K., so maybe the heels are just a smidge on the slutty side, but, you know, in a classy way).

Usually, because some of the best-looking heels hurt after a while, I wear flats and carry heels in a tote, I then change into the fab shoes right outside whatever restaurant, bar, event etc. I’m going to. (My male friends roll their eyes and make fun of me. My girlfriends completely understand.) But since it was such a short distance from my apartment, I figured my feet could handle it.

Little did I know my shoes wouldn’t fare so well.

I’m half a block from the restaurant when one of my heels gets stuck in a sidewalk crack. Really stuck. I tug upward repeatedly and finally free my shoe – but not my heel. It’s still stuck in the crack while the rest of the shoe is on my foot. Lovely! Not lookin’ so classy now. I bend down, not in the least bit gracefully give my unbalanced feet, and yank the hell free and just stare at the stupid thing. Cheap not Manolo Blahnik shoe (more like Payless)!

I have two choices. I can hobble into the restaurant, which is a lot closer than going back to my apartment, and embarrass myself on my first date. Or I can hobble back home (just as embarrassing), change my shoes and be late, which will probably piss off my cute date.


I limp into the bistro and greet my date. He’s not looking at my feet. I explain the situation and he bursts into laughter. Yeah, I tend not to pick sensitive guys.

I tell him I just want to sit down, enjoy a meal and then deal with the gimp back to my apartment to change. (Not that I really want him to come back to my place afterward as that is not something I do on a first date. Having been stalked a couple times, I prefer not to even let a guy know exactly where I live until later in our relationship. But cheap fashion has kind of forced my hand, er, foot.)

I have had many other instances, just wearing heels for a short bit on my lunch hour or something, when a heel gets caught in a grate or other trap and, though I free it without it breaking off, it strips the leather (assuming I splurged and am actually wearing leather shoes) off the heel. All you can do is glue it back down. But it leaves a sad remnant of the lovely heel it once was.

With one of my cheap pair of shoes with many scuffs marring the plastic, the shoe repair guy told me I could do a better job with a magic marker than anything he could do. I own just about every color of maker out there.


O.K. So, I’ve learned my lesson about cheap shoes. On the other hand, the most expensive pair I own costs a whopping $72 plus tax, and were much less comfortable than dirt cheap pairs I own. In fact, these gorgeous “expensive” shoes of mine I dubbed my taxi shoes. People think it’s because they are half yellow and half black. But actually, they hurt so darn much when I’m not walking on carpet (and said carpet is not usually of the red variety in my social circle) that all I want to do is call a taxi!

So, the moral of this story is, ya gotta be filthy rich enough to strut your tootsies in expensive shoes on the streets and sidewalks of NY that you can afford another pair when they snap off.

And even if you can afford a new pair at whatever price range, when you have a fab pair of shoes that meet an untimely death, it breaks your fashionable little heart! I mean it’s a shoe! Right ladies! (Or at least you gals who can’t get enough like me.)

I feel I should say something like, sole sisters unite. But that would be silly.