Right now, there is an angry, red, dime-sized blister on my right heel. For the purposes of this writing, I have named my blister Kim Kardashian. Why name my blister after a pouty-lipped, bodacious reality-TV star? Because it’s all her fault.
Kim Kardashian came into my life last weekend after just a couple of hours in a pair of leopard-print platform heels. I had purchased them in the midst of a whirlwind Christmas-rush shopping extravaganza during which I easily spent two dollars on myself to every one dollar I spent on anyone else, and after uttering such ludicrous words as “I’ve always wanted leopard-print platform heels!” Squee!
Kim Kardashian (the person, not the blister) can often be seen wearing shoes similar to the ones I bought in People Magazine or Us Weekly while being photographed adopting a rescue tea-cup Shih Tzu or getting engaged to the wrong athlete. Her dreamy wide eyes show no signs of discomfort. Her insane curves and Jessica Rabbit ankles make gullible chicks like me think Hollywood glamour may actually be attainable — if only we had the right shoes!
Kim Kardashian (the blister, not the person), represents my attempt at Kardashian-level glamour. In an effort to show my husband’s new coworkers what a total catch I am, I wore the four-inch platforms to the company holiday shindig, held at an upscale downtown café with a French name and six-dollar soft drinks.
Long before we got there, I could tell there was trouble afoot. (Sorry.) I had affixed a Band Aid on the right heel because it already stung after nary 20 steps in the things. My toes had already become somewhat numb just from standing and checking my off-the-charts hotness in the mirror at home.
Arriving downtown, we were forced to park two blocks from the front door. By the time my feet crossed the threshold at Café Agony, all ten little piggies were considering going to market and never coming home. The first trip to the restroom found me seriously thinking about using my nylons to tie off my right leg and perform my own little version of “127 Hours” because that would have hurt a little less.
Is this what you go through routinely, Kim Kardashian (the person)? If it is, you can so very have it. Thanks to Kim Kardashian (the blister AND the person) my husband’s co-workers either think I was suffering from some kind of rare cancer of the ankle, or that I just generally get really surly when I’ve had too many cranberry and sodas. And I’m not sure what got said as they watched Jim fireman’s carry my hobbled carcass to the door, then prop me up by the valet sign while he went to get the car, but it probably wasn’t “Wow. There goes one classy broad!”
But as I sit here with a shiny new Band Aid on Kim Kardashian (the … you know), I recall some of the women I met that night (with my shoes discretely kicked off under the table), most of whom were quite lovely and certainly glamorous. How did they achieve it, I wonder? (I couldn’t see their shoes.)
Oh, now I remember! They were smiling.