Fashion Victim

The bright spark who made us believe that its okay to suffer for fashion, should be shot. In the foot.

Or at the very least, made to spend ten hours walking around in 6-inch stiletto heels, looking like heaven, but feeling like hell.

In my normal daily life, I prefer to keep my feet on the ground. In flats.

But a special occasion called for special shoes: Only the biggest horse-racing event in the country. There’d be cameras, hot men and most importantly, other women in teetering heels.

Race day arrived. I found myself flirting fabulously with the fashion crowd. But no matter how many ‘lurve your stilettos, dahling’ came my way, all I could focus on was the burning and throbbing down below.
I felt alone in my pain.

I looked at the well-heeled crowd around me. Models and actresses prancing and posing with gargantuan grins plastered on their faces, all footloose and fancy-free. Why wasn’t I smiling? Was I the only one in foot hell?

I blame you, Carrie Bradshaw. You who made me believe, believe, that external glamour was worth any kind of excruciating torture. I even purred ‘Hello, lover’ just like you did, when I first laid eyes on said foot-wreckers. (Of course, Carrie was talking about Christian Louboutins. I was wearing… anyway, that’s besides the point.) Irresponsible propaganda, I say. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t bitter… I was blistered.

Then… a revolution. It could have been the copious amounts of champagne. But as night fell, the conversation in the fashion tent shifted. The glamazons started talking about their feet. More importantly, the pain in their feet. I wasn’t alone anymore. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. (I still thank God that I hadn’t.)
Two weeks later, my feet are slowly returning back to normal. The scars are fading and disfigurement is minimal.

I may even wear my 6-inchers to a party this weekend.