Three days later as I ready for the brunch, bras and Bloomies outing I feel more zen with myself. Thankfully my anxiety attack on the 125th Street subway platform is a distant memory. Today I feel in control, potent, powerful. I can formulate a list of my skills, talents and quirks: excellent cook, tidy, funny, witty, intelligent, mad-ass organizational skills, good friend, obedient daughter, loving sister, world’s greatest aunt, fashion sense, not homeless, not paralyzed, decent writer, cute enough to kiss. Perhaps I need to chill out and not obsess about things like a possible solitary existence with cats, kaftans and Cutty Sark. Real love is like real people, imperfect, flawed and on its’ own timeline.
As I brush my hair I run a mental inventory of my closet and decide to wear a turtleneck and jeans tucked into boots. I am inspired by late nights with Chrissy Snow (from Three’s Company). Once dressed, I put on my make-up, wish that my eyelashes were a tad longer, but thank Durga for flawless skin.
I pad out of the bathroom, through the living room and into the entryway. This walk takes less than seven seconds. My apartment is that small. In the manner of a musical conductor I pull the camel colored boots out of the closet, tug my knee-high socks over my jeans and zip my right foot into the boot. With a little fanfare I reach for the left boot and zip. Halfway the zip stops. Hhmmm, that’s odd I think and presume my jeans are caught in the 15-inch zipper. No biggie I think and unzip an inch, smooth down the denim and tug up. I underestimate my state of “stuckness” and the hard jerking motion challenges my balance and I topple over.
“Well that is no good,” I think, stand and decide not to wear these boots. I take off the right one and toss it back in the closet. I begin to unzip the left one and nothing happens. I tug a few more times but my fingers must be too oily. I go back into the bathroom, one boot up, one boot not up, and get some baby powder, dry my fingers and try again. Nothing. Maybe I need some torque.
Professor Mendelssohn would be so proud that remember his physics lecture. I bring my calf to my mouth and use my teeth to try and tug the zip. Yes, I am that flexible. No this does not work and almost breaks my tooth, which would not make my dentist proud. I go back into the kitchen and rip open a new pack of dishwashing gloves. And again nothing. I open my little girl tool kit and grab the pliers. “This should do it,” I think and try pulling the zip down. Nothing, nothing, nothing!
I glance at the clock. Small beads of sweat cap my forehead like a tiara. I am meeting Kate and Wynn in 45 minutes at the Neptune Room. While I hate to be late, I hate becoming a fashion victim even more: SPOTTED: DESI GIRL, WHO CLEARLY DOES NOT HAVE A MIRROR, LIGHTS OR FRIENDS, WHY ELSE WOULD SHE BE IN PUBLIC BRUNCHING HALF STUCK IN HER BOOT?
Argh! I stomp into my bedroom and sit on the bed. I lift weights; surely I can pull this freaking boot off. I grab both sides of my foot and give a sharp tug. More nothing. My freaking foot is so freaking stuck in my freaking boot I don’t think the Allied Forces at Normandy could free my little piggies from leather! I decide to pin the leather and pull my jeans over the boot and find a cobbler later, but my jeans are as stuck in the boot as my toes. What the FREAK is going on?
It may not seem like it, but trying to liberate your foot from your boot is quite a workout. I have managed to melt off my make-up, sweat through my tee-shirt and dampen my cashmere sweater. Ew and ick. Now I need a wardrobe change too. Lordy.
When I decide making brunch on time is a must, I again do the unspeakable and grab the scissors. Only this time I want to cry. These are my FAVORITE FAVORITE FAVORITE boots. I actually got pleasure from cutting myself out of those wildly painful foot traps (see Post 154). But now, with the scissor blades slowly closing in on the supple leather I feel physical pain. For someone who loves shoes more than food it seems like 31 shades of wrong to experience this.
I sigh and stare at that the ceiling, “Okay, God are you listening? When I die we’re SO chatting about my life’s injustices. I’m not thrilled about being short, having these thighs or waiting around for the MTA to fix the A train tracks. But really? My boots? You’re going for the jugular here. And I know you can hear me!” I snap.
This is the SECOND time I have cut myself out of shoes. Only this time I am stone sober and sad to lose the closest thing to kids I have. They say things happen in threes, but if lose one more pair of shoes in this shoe cursed apartment I am SO moving.