Last weekend was a busy one for me. I emceed the Breast Cancer gala at The Ritz-Carlton, Grand Cayman and it was a fabulous night of people generously supporting the cause.
I decided to wear the flowery, flouncy, not-me-at-all dress that I bought on my recent vacation. You may remember that I thought it belonged on a Savannah, Georgia front porch with a jug of lemonade. Although it made my already squat neck look non-existent, it was the perfect pink colour for the night and saved me the time of trying to go through the depths of my wardrobe. Turkish Delight, anyone? (I hope at least one person gets that reference.)
All I needed now was a pair of great shoes…
I have never been a shoes or handbags kinda gal. I’ve always had a few pairs, but mainly practical ones with sensible height heels – probably because I’m constantly racing around everywhere, so stilettos are impractical. I always marvel at what women are willing to risk their ankles for. I found myself wondering how they managed to walk, nay – DANCE in such instruments of torture. I also wonder how men would fare in (literally) the same shoes. Then again, they have to sometimes wear tuxedos with larynx-crushing bowties, so I suppose we all have our crosses to bear. Beyond that, a few of these events have been staged outdoors over the years, insisting on the formal dress code. Nothing screams comfort like a light wool dinner jacket in 80-degree heat.
I host a lot of functions, which usually require me to be on my feet for the majority of the evening. There must be hours of security footage collected over the years of me wandering down the corridors of one venue or the next, high heels in hand. It is rare that I manage to make it all night without succumbing to the pain, which is why I admire ladies that can still walk after an evening of carousing. I’ve read reports of film stars who say that the agony is worth the look. Really? Beyond the fact that it’s, well … agony, is it elegant to limp everywhere? How do they stand it? I’m reminded of the original ‘Little Mermaid’ tale (not the feel-good Disney version) where the witch warned her that if she changed her tail into feet, every step would feel like she was walking on sharp swords. I hear ya, sista.
I purchased a pair of red 6” beauties in Miami a number of years ago, and marvelled at how initially (operative word there) comfortable they were. I handed over ready cash and took them on my next vacation. I hadn’t walked many yards before my toes slowly made their way into the pointed front, bringing my big toe almost physically impossibly within swatting distance of my little one. Ow! Ow! Ow!! Determined to carry on, I hugged the wall that led to the restaurant, finally standing in front of the Maitre D’ in the manner of someone who badly needed to use the facilities. Sensing urgency, he got us to the nearest table. I sat down and nearly wept with relief. They have sat in the closet ever since.
I have a dear friend who is also a brilliant shoe aficionado at Neiman Marcus in Boca Raton and, therefore, a rotten influence when I protest that I don’t need anything. Joe has taken the simple job of choosing and fitting shoes to an art form. These run small, those run wide, and so forth… He has managed to find me some of the most comfortable pairs I’ve ever worn – which brings me to some black, towering strappies a la Diane Von Furstenberg that I just loved. They really did seem to be the unicorns of footwear. They were high, but the heel was reinforced rather than a glorified needle, so it wasn’t so much an elephant-on-pins situation.
With my large noggin, huge hair and already 5’ 7” without the shoes, I was more female WWF than DVF, but I loved ‘em so I was wearin’ ‘em! I got from the house to the car with no problems; Step 1 complete. I was walking as though on clouds through the doors of The Ritz-Carlton as I looked down benevolently upon the doormen. Flying through Step 2! And so it went for the rest of the evening. Bar – check! Restrooms – check! Dancing to the funky new hits of a post-event DJ – check check!! No one could believe I was boogeying in those things, but boogeying I was! I caught my reflection in the darkened windows and swelled with pride at the giant dandelion smiling back at me. By midnight, I was convinced that these were magic shoes. Eager to push them to their full potential, I indicated that I was willing to stay on the dance floor until last call.
And that was the beginning of the carriage turning back into a pumpkin.
At around 1am, I felt a twinge on the ball of my right foot. I dismissed it. It continued. The left foot took up the charge in sympathy, and by the time I had made my way through several ABBA numbers, ‘Return of the Mack’ and some Lady Gaga hits, Cinderella was feeling every bite of her glass slippers. I had flown too close to the sun on wings of black suede, and now I was paying the price.
Determined to stay out longer and prove I still had what it took to party with the younger crowd, I briefly removed them to sit at the bar, which allowed my toes to rearrange themselves. Of course, it was at this point that my bestie Lynne reckoned she had had enough. Time to call it an evening – it was late. I went to put the shoes back on. Not only had my feet grown, but they were thumping. I was going to have to go it barefoot. If you’ve ever ridden a bicycle with a narrow seat after a long period of no riding, you’ll know what it’s like when you walk around for a bit between journeys, and then try to get back on. That part of your body protests accommodating the foreign object once again.
So, back to the start of the tale. What shoes did I wear with my pink, fluffy gown? Pink flats, that’s what. And when I changed into a more practical outfit for the live auction, it was black Skechers.
It’s one thing to look elegant in heels when you can sit down for most of the night, but I don’t have that luxury. So, I guess until I get the ankle muscles prepped for elevated footwear, I’ll bedazzle my sneakers.
Not the fanciest solution, but as I get older, I realise that crippling myself for the sake of fashion is overrated. I’ll leave a rhinestone-covered running shoe on the stairs as the clock strikes midnight, and hopefully the prince can still find me.
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