Last weekend, I performed my civic duty and volunteered at our local Boys and Girls Club Gala fundraising event. I live near a fairly affluent community, and this event was being held at the Four Seasons Hotel, so I knew I’d need to pull out the big guns if I didn’t want to stand out like the token Latina that I was.
A couple of years earlier, I had volunteered at the same event, so I knew what to expect: lots of beautiful people walking past me and an occasional patron needing assistance. It was a loooong four hours back then, standing in 4-inch heels, trying hard to be as extroverted as was humanly possible.
At the time, because I was not one to make the front page of the society section, I hadn’t had much opportunity to get all fancied up in many years. And when I put on my heels that night, I realized that I was unable to keep my hosiery’d feet in my shoes while walking. Moving at anything more than a snail’s pace (or as we like to call it, my mother’s pace) was pretty much impossible As a result, I remained immobile the entire evening. By the end of that night, two years ago, I could barely hobble to the car without a variety of blisters screaming out in awkward agony.
But all’s well that ends well. I blended in well enough, as long as I didn’t move.
Fast forward to last weekend. Since the gala two years ago, I had had no other need for impressive evening wear, and was thus unprepared to dress to impress this time around. So on a hope and a prayer, I ran over to TJ Maxx and forked over $20 for a dress that could easily have been mistaken for $40. Determined not to have a repeat of two years ago, I made sure I had shoes that would not fall off my feet. Even though the heels were an inch taller, my lingering summer tan precluded the need for pantyhose. I was confident I'd be fine.
Unfortunately, in going bare-legged, I hadn’t considered the condition of my legs or the multitude of bruises that decorated them. So at t-minus 30 minutes, I took a look in the mirror and gasped in horror at my unsightly gams.
Not to be discouraged, I thought quick, grabbed my handy-dandy under eye concealer and did a quick spot application on no less than 5 bruises. But it turns out legs are a completely different color from faces. So now I had a lovely set of off-color bruises that were highlighted by pale haloes of beige. Undeterred, I grabbed my bronzer and began feathering furiously.
You can imagine. It. Didn’t. Work.
Whatever. I figured no one would be looking at my legs anyway.
Final touches complete, just enough time to slip on my shoes and head out the door (actually I was 25 minutes late). As I bent down to grab a shoe, it struck me why I rarely wear those gorgeous shoes. Because THEY FALL OFF MY HEELS, that's why, and my mental note to buy heel pads six months earlier had gone unnoticed.
Mental note: stop relying on mental notes.
So again, I was confronted with the possibility of 4 hours of volunteering in foot-defying shoes (not counting the quarter mile hike to and from the parking lot). The memory of that painful night two years ago was still fresh in my mind, so, determined not to go through that again, I went in search of a solution. What I came up with would make Heloise herself proud.
Latex surgical gloves. One shoved into each heel provided enough cushion and filling to not only keep my heel in place, but to also provide some much needed comfort throughout that long night.
My gloves kept trying to escape. On more than one occasion, I looked down and saw this:
So which is worse...repeatedly walking right out of your shoe in front of a bunch of ridiculously wealthy socialites or having what looks like a prophylactic falling out the back of your shoe?
My shoes stayed on all night.
|My photo from the night (not shown: gray roots, bruised legs, and latex gloves).|