If you have spent one day pounding the pavement in New York City then you know what my feet look like right now after four grueling spiked heel days on the concrete of the land of: “if you can’t make it there, you can’t make it anywhere”. Obviously Mr. Baby Blue Eyes, Frankie Baby Sinatra never had to toe crushing patented leathers with the spikes of life attached to the bottom. These miniature chambers are not meant for walking, as his daughter Nancy tried to convince the most naive among us. When running after taxi cabs and cross-town buses, when flitting over street grates or maneuvering the pot-holes of the sidewalks, in New York, you NEED flat shoes. So like any sensible girl, I wore the heels until my feet were blistered and bleeding and then I went to the nearest shoe store on Columbus Ave.
If I could only have the five inch, five strap-bucked, zip backed metallic snake skin pewter sandals that the clerk assured me the sole was four years in the making to guarantee day-long comfort. Of course the clerk was a man. He has no idea. Somehow I got out of there with a sensible pair of ballerina flats, in the metallic snake skin, minus the zips and buckles, not to mention spikes. I wore them to finish my weekend in New York. I cannot tell you if I will wear them again, as my feet are still swollen from the equivalent to a hike up Killy (that’s Kilimanjaro, for you amateur pavement pounders). Did I mention the shopping bags that added more weight to my poor tootsies? All for the sacrifice of Fashion. Next time, I bring a Sherpa.