Friday, 20 September 2013

FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE FLAT-OUT RIDICULOUS

MY EDITOR IS GETTING BETTER 
at photos. Because although I'm blurry 
and you can hardly tell I'm wearing flats, 
he at least remembered to crop out the 
recycling basket full of empty vodka bottles. 
Editor's note: Two recycling baskets. 



Sometimes you can get a reputation for something without even knowing it. And I know you’re thinking, “Here comes another of her ‘I swear on this Bible that just burst into flames that I did NOT have sex with that cretin!’ stories, but in fact, this story is about sensible shoes. And my reputation for never having heard of them.

Because apparently the people I work with don’t recognize me unless I’m wearing heels any tranny would look at and say, "Now that's just too much."
Which is why they were all totally thrown today when I walked in wearing flats.

(You might remember a previous post about how I exploded my leg awhile back. And how I swore it would take more than a severed hamstring to put me off heels. Well yesterday I got the “more.” I hurt my back at the gym, so between that and the leg I'm hobbling around like an 80-year-old hunchback and stilettos are temporarily out of the question.)

So I’m padding around the office in my Converse running shoes and a co-worker says, “You’re not wearing heels? You’re breaking my heart.”
And then another comes by and says “Flats! What’s wrong?”
And yet another stops me in the cafeteria and says, “I walked by you twice and didn’t even recognize you without your heels.”

In fact about the only person who was pleased with my footwear choice was my physiotherapist, he who was been tasked with pulverizing my leg back into working order, and who has now made two appearances here so he’s practically my new editor. (Editor's note: "This is how you tell me?")
"Now those are what I call sensible shoes," he said. "If you wore those more often . . . "
"Less talking, more pulverizing," I said. But not aloud. Are you kidding me? The guy could have me in traction in seconds.
So I let him think that I've gone sane, let him be happy for a day, maybe even the whole weekend. But on Monday, God willing, he's getting full frontal tranny again. Because even I don't recognize me without my heels on.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Maybe you’re just getting too old for high heels.
MY NOTE: Maybe it would be interesting to watch someone get beaten to death with a pair of seven-inch stilettos.