The party shoes from HELL

DAY 77

So, after my break from blogging I felt the need to start living and giving again.

I thought that I would kick things off with an entertaining tidbit from this past weekend - and you can join me in mulling over the complexities of being female.

My friend Heather and I headed to Brisbane yesterday for a girls weekend - shopping | dinner at a gorgeous dessert bar (Freestyle) | catching one of our favourite bands (Boy and Bear) at the Hifi | cocktails at a fantastic club called Zuri | breakfast somewhere yummy | the 'world press photo' exhibition at the Powerhouse (I highly recommend) | driving home - singing along to our shared favourite songs! A perfect weekend - except that it was marred by a rookie fashion mistake...

Footwear choice is an important and complicated choice for any female. I chose my new party shoes. They called to me in their gleeful voices "pick us! we want to go out! We hate being cooped up in the cupboard all day long - you never take us anywhere!". So I bundled the party shoes in the car for their date with destiny - or at least their date with Brisbane on a Saturday night.

6pm. It was time for the party shoes big moment. We hobbled out the front door. There was a little pain in the toes but I soldiered on.

8pm. The standing commenced at the show. The shoes started to whinge and complain. They didn't know it would be like this - all this standing. No sitting down. They thought the night was all about them sitting prettily under a table. I told the party shoes to quit complaining - they wanted to come out and this is what out looked like.

9pm. The party shoes decided to fight back by giving me the worst blisters I can ever remember and completely crippling me. Standing became a balancing act - giving one foot a break at a time. It's hard to sing along when the loud protests from your feet drown out the music. Oh my goodness!

2am. Now - you would be familiar with 'that girl' who walks through the city barefoot - with her completely inappropriate shoes dangling from one hand, and her handbag in the other, trying desperately to remember where she parked the car while navigating a darkened footpath.

Yes. I hate to admit it, but I was that girl last night.

I can't say I am proud of the barefoot walk - but my feet staged a mutiny.

They would not take one more step while ensconced in such weapons of torture.

If my feet could dream, they were dreaming of my slippers at the time.

They were wondering why slippers are not an appropriate footwear choice to wear while sipping cocktails amongst extremely good looking men in expensive dark suits.

I concur with my feet.

And the most disappointing thing of all is that even while wearing these shoes of torture I failed to attract any interest from amongst the plethora of men in the club.

Bah. Maybe it wasn't the shoes. Maybe it was the length of my skirt.

Not that attention is all that important.

More like a gauge for my ability to blend in amongst my peers.

I must do some more testing of the shoe/skirt length hypothesis in the future.

While wearing different shoes....

The party shoes have been banished back to the hell from whence they came.