Someone – perhaps a show manufacturer – is laughing very very hard at my expense!
You see, I’m over the half-century hump and not yet willing to give up on life.
While my feet plead with me for padded comfort, I tell them they’ve still got a few more years of the hard yards – of bearing me forward on high heeled glamour. If Posh can wear 16cm power platforms (while very pregnant) to THE wedding, then surely I can. The fashion pundits tell us that the platformed look is not yet over – there may still be many more months to come.
“All over the world right now,” shoe-designer Kirkwood says “women want platforms.”
I had the above beauties on lay-by and recently completed the purchase telling myself at the time that they were special. Not the sort of footwear I’d wear for hours and hours on end, but ones that would add a finishing touch to a casually elegant look. When you’re 5’2″ you need all the help you can get! And look at them, gorgeous soft grey-green nubuck suede, orange and black laces with baubles at the end and soft as soft silver-sheened lining – fabulous! I’m not ready for mumsy … plenty of time for that …
So last night, after an afternoon trying to get to grips with the game of golf, I changed quickly into jeans and new boots for an evening’s rugby viewing at the Westpac Stadium. So far so good …
I walked gingerly down our steepish driveway and tottered over to the car. I confess to having been a bit concerned about driving in these puppies but my feet neatly fitted over the pedals and I was away.
I tottered (again) up the metal stairway at the stadium and was relieved when we reached escalator for the rest of our climb – brief respite from my ungainly walk.
The rest of the evening went well. The Hurricanes even managed to win the game. By the time we had to make our exit though, my hips already felt like they were seizing up. Knife-edged pains, which I didn’t own up to, were shooting down my legs.
The pain didn’t abate on the drive home. I struggled up the driveway and into the house – only just managing to lower myself to a chair to get the damn boots off. Each subsequent step was punctuated with a reminder of my stupidity (and vanity!).
Eventually I took myself off to bed with my hotty (not my partner!) thinking that the heat might – just might – ease the ache.
This morning I awoke still aware of the pain and feeling my age with each step. Now that we’ve done all the Sunday chores, I can resort to flat heeled comfort. I haven’t owned up to my discomfort … no way!
If I do, golf will be the villain not my beautiful new boots.
I will have to think very carefully before I take them on their next outing. Perhaps the movies …