Pain Is Beauty. Or Something.
August 24th, 2009
Ah, the things we women will do to look beautiful.
The ladies in my family have a thing for red plaid. You might even call it an obsession. It started (I think) some time back in the early 60s when my mother made red plaid jumpers for her mother and sisters with matching vests for her brother and father. To this day, we all have a soft spot for the stuff.
And so it was utterly appropriate that my aunt Roo should appear at our family gathering last weekend armed with red plaid flats. Lots of red plaid flats. She’d discovered a great deal at Target and scooped up a pair for everyone.
They’re absolutely fabulous. I debuted them today with a pair of dress capris and a red scoop neck top and got rave reviews. It was the perfect look — professional, but with just the right touch of sass.
But oh! The pain. The pain!! My gorgeous new footwear was clearly designed by a sadistic male. Or someone without feet. Or both.
Within about twenty minutes of heading out the door, the backs of my heels were rubbed raw and throbbing. I applied a band aid. Then another one. Then a few more until the backs of my ankles were swathed in padded adhesive. That enabled me to get through the day. Barely.
Now the men who are reading this are thinking: “What the heck? Why on earth would you do that to yourself? Over shoes? Over funny looking shoes?”
And the women are sagely nodding and thinking: “Yes, my sister. We feel your pain. But be strong, for a truly beautiful pair of shoes is worth great sacrifice.”