154. I HATE MY FEET … OR MAYBE IT IS MY SHOES I HATE

I love to dress up. This is why tonight’s fundraiser has me almost giddy, reveling in the glorious sight of men in tuxedos and women in floor-length gowns.

Because I am a fashionista on a budget (what an ugly word) I opted for a black and silver lengha (short blouse and long skirt with a matching scarf that doubles as a shawl), bejeweled in sequins and silver zari thread. What is even more fabulous than how I feel (Indian princess) is that I always fit into Indian formalwear with its adjustable waist! My shoes are another story. I have been in these death traps for five hours and want to cut off my feet. And I love my feet. They are my portal to pedicures. [p.s. that is not me to the right, nor do I look like that, these are examples of lenghas].

I walk around the beautiful ballroom, ablaze with candles and lights. There are two bars flanking either side of the room and tables line the dance floor. Because we had wine at dinner I decide to peruse the silent auction but it's a blue and silver blur of spas, ski vacations, haircuts, and diamonds.


My friends want to boogie so we grab champagne and head off to the dance floor. Slowly we make an amoeba shaped circle and dance like Americans. Half of us flail our arms, while the other half contort our bodies like we’re in a Wham! video.

Around midnight, I realize I am not drunk or trashed. Holy bad manners, I am shit-faced at a ticketed formal event surrounded by glamorous and sophisticated people. Somehow in my beautiful Indian clothes blinking has become a challenge. On, then there is the matter of my feet. I no longer feel them. And so I decide I must leave. NOW!

At the coat check I can’t tell if I’m slurring. More importantly I don’t care. I slip my coat on, accept the goodie bag, gather the folds of my lengha to keep from sweeping the sidewalk and hop into a cab. I get home and have no recollection of the FDR or the taxi cutting across Washington Heights to my building.

Inside my apartment I shrug off my coat and untie my lengha skirt. It falls onto the floor and forms a black lake of silk. In my blouse, stockings and shoes, my hateful shoes, I plot my escape from silver strappy leather. I try and kick them off, but they won’t budge. Hhhmm. That was weird. Normally these things just slide off.

I sit down on a chair and tug at the strap, trying to pull them off. But they seem stuck. Did someone super glue them to my feet? I pull one foot close to my face, just under my nose, to inspect the buckle (thank goodness those four yoga classes made me limber enough to do this). I rather hoped this action would jog back memory of how buckles work. Instead an opposite situation occurs. Fear shoots through me as I realize I don’t remember how to push the pin out of the hole. I try pulling at the buckle. That doesn’t work. I tug at the front of the shoe. Nothing. I yank at the back. Nothing. Holy crap. I am trapped in my evil Macy’s sale shoes.

Finally, because desperate times call for desperate measures, I find scissors and sit down on the couch. With two quick snips I violate 101 fashion codes, including always save the shoes, but manage to liberate my feet.

Ooo. Let’s see, no husband, too much bubbly and a scissor to shoe sacrifice …. Oh yes, life is so NOT on track.