Confessions of a Stiletto Masochist.

I've been dancing continually with this dance school downtown now for about a year, and our moves are starting to get quite complex, with double spider turns, S-turns and Suzie Q's. Salsa affictionados will know what those terms mean. To others, it looks as complicated as it sounds. For the dancer, it means that you must be really light and quick on your feet.

Today i decided to wear some high heeled sandals to work, since it was such a nice day, and i thought i could just dance in them afterward instead of lugging an extra pair of shoes to change into like i usually do. BAD IDEA. It was tough enough to walk in the strappy stilettos from Front Street to King Street (less than 10 minute walk). IT was a death to my feet to wear the same shoes for a 9 hour work day, PLUS dance in them afterward.

Needless to say, my feet were not nimble and graceful like they need to be to dance to the fast 8-count salsa music that was playing. My feet literally felt like heavy bloody concrete stumps, and I was stumbling with each turn my partner made me do. It was embarassing. Everytime I tried a side step, the leather cut into my throbbing toes and I'd loose my beat and stumble.

BUT, I am a trooper, and was not about to quit on account of gimped out feet. I built up my adrenaline and solidered on. I kept convincing myself that "I AM WOMAN" and no shoes were going to get the better of me. Besides, if women can triapse around town, go shopping and walk fast in even higher spikes than mine, I can surely dance for an hour in my baby 3 inch heels.

An hour later as I try to maintain my dignity and feign comfort for my walk back to Union from the First Canadian Place (10 minute walk) never has the road looked so long. I contemplate barefooting it through the underground PATH. i vow to myself, NEVER AGAIN, stilettos, never again. I even started to harbour hateful thoughts toward my shoes, with each excruciating step i take. Long story short, I make it in time to catch my train, and the 30 minute ride gives my feet have a chance to rest and sober up. By the time I reach Erindale Station, the pain in my feet doesn't seem so bad anymore, and my hateful feelings toward my shoes doesn't seem so strong. The shoes really didn't MEAN to hurt me. It's not really their fault. It's hard to be beautiful and comfortable so I shouldn't blame them really...they tried to be good to me. Maybe I expect too much.

And this gentleman, is why women will stay faithful to their high heeled shoes, no matter how bad they treat her. It's a love-hate relationship. Time (and bandaids) heals pain and fades fast the bad memories. In fact, I am at the moment mentally pairing these very shoes with my cropped black dress pants, thinking that the outfit would be nice to wear to work tomorrow.
And the saga continues....

Stilettos: 1
Kim: 0