Dilemma of what to wear. I stare at my rows of footwear with a lost expression. Choose tan MiuMiu inspired wedges with gold hardware (never been worn), then pull the lame card and play it safe with cuffed up dark denim, plain white T and my signature leather jacket. Look in the mirror, like what I see, but all the time kicking myself for being conservative. Oh well, I tell myself; it is early on a Tuesday and I have a whole week to be mad. Leaving the house I have a last minute stress about looking contrived, so dash back inside and swathe myself in a massive tie-dyed muslin scarf. Now I’m rock and roll.
Tottering down the road for my first coffee of the day, it takes a bit of practice to eradicate the giraffe-ish lope that goes with wearing high wedges. After some rehearsal down a back alley, problem solved. Solution? Tight tummy, long strides. I feel sure the eyes of everyone on the street are burning into me. The coffee is lovely, though my paranoia endured, and I get a few prolonged glances at my feet.
By lunchtime my feet are killing me, toes have been all but severed by the too tight top strap of my shoes. My lunch date scoffs; saying it serves me right for trying to break in new shoes on my first day of a week of heel wear.
End of the day. In the privacy of home I inspect my war wounds and discover three small blisters. I prepare myself a peppermint foot bath and sob into the hot water.