Several years ago, a friend gave me a pair of black strappy stilettos. I laughed at the time, thinking how ridiculous it would be if I ever actually wore them, but last December an occasion arose, so I whipped out the sexy, barely there shoes and tried them on. And nearly died. Apparently there’s a bit of a learning curve when it comes to walking in a shoe with a three inch dagger. Somehow I survived the night, though dancing in them for several hours did lead to a dislocated toe.
Tonight I’ll be wearing those smokin’ hot heels from hell again, so it occurred to me that I might need a bit of practice before I’m allowed out in public. I spent a ridiculous amount of time this morning stumbling around the house like a drunken gazelle, dodging lego bombs and hot wheels death traps. It was like stiletto boot camp with the children acting as crazed drill instructors, throwing themselves in front of me with the hysterical suggestion that I learn to jump. It was surprisingly good practice, although I have now adopted the rather unsexy habit of walking like I’m in the middle of a mine field rather than with the graceful stride that I was hoping for.