People talk about today’s socialites like they’re the badass of party animals. They dress up nicely and a man is draped over their arm like a mink coat. Pardon me for sounding like an old lady when I saw what I’m about to say.
But boy oh boy, you should have seen me in my day.
I had a group of girlfriends and we were the socialites the world never got to discover. We dressed up and partied every day of the week. More importantly…we wore heels. We considered it an offense against all species of roses not to wear heels.
The problem is that I was poor so I think I only had like two pairs. Finding matching clothes for the heels for every night of the week was a challenge. I took taxis to various homes to find clothes to match those heels.
When I found those clothes, it took me some more time to trot from door to door of friends to find the right comb, nail vanish, make-up, perfume and other relevant accessories for those heels.
In the beginning, I used to wobble painfully but I persevered valiantly until I had learned to take large strides on my stick thin spider legs in those heels. I managed the taxi parks in those heels. I danced on tops of tables in those heels. I did the wind-baby-gal-wind-down in those heels. I played pool in those heels.
I swear I even danced jabba in those heels.
I remember the last time I ever thought heels were something cool. About two years ago, I attended a speed dating session as one of the desperate ladies looking for a man (I ain’t ashamed) and I was wearing the little beauties in the picture below.
Somewhere in the course of the night, I realized that’s all they were. Beautiful. I was tired of, well…being uncomfortable for no good reason. Heels bloody hurt. If you want the ones in this picture that are practically brand new, just say the word. They’re size 34.
I’ll deliver the bloody things to your office myself