Shoe fiasco x 2.5! Or, my near death experiences.

After 2.5 near death experiences this weekend involving footwear, I'm feeling quite empowered. It's as if I am an evil-fighter in stilettos.

Last night was girls' night out with my favorite female cousin that's in the metroplex and over 21. She had never had a night of debauchery, and I was the lucky soul chosen to "break the seal", if you will, of her life-long sobriety. After stops at Gloria's, Zaza, and several other seedy, glad that I don't know the name of, bars on lower Greenville, I took her to the end-all, be-all of ridiculous night-ending bars.... Zephyrs. After hanging out in the bottle-service section for quite sometime while half of us tried to recover our bearings, we decided that some water and a short trek to the patio would do half of us some good in the impaired vision department.

While cautiously establishing our footing to one of the more isolated tables in the back of the patio, my shoe broke. My most favorite Tory Burch wannabe t-strap sandal broke! The part that connects the t-strap to the sole between my toe just went free. It was emancipated from the bondage of the plastic between my toes to soar high above my foot. While I'm all about liberation from bondage, this was neither the time nor the place. But as with most revolutions, this riot was out of my control.

So across the patio I continued to walk, Queen of Inebriation on my right, broken shoe still fastened around my ankle, sole dragging behind like a ball and chain, and t-strap flapping in the breeze. I nearly fell and broke my neck. Or at the very least, my perfect little nose.

While we walked, I deliberated the second hardest decision of the night (the first being what to order for my cousin). Do I continue to walk barefoot across the patio and risk stepping on a drug needle or worse, a lougi while the sole of my shoe drags behind me much like a dead dog being taken on a walk? Or do I lift my left leg like an over exuberant Clydesdale in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade? I opted for option 2. I have been called horsey a time or two, so I figured there was no better time to not only flash the world as my short skirt betrayed me with each step, but also to live up to the adjective too-often bestowed on me by my mother. Mammal trumped drug needle in this battle.

After the treacherous 20 foot walk, my comrade and I made it to our goal, where I made sure she would not fall over and then removed my pathetic shoe. After we were settled, I told my cousin my plan. "I'm going to the bar to see if they have a stapler or tape."

"You're just going to go up to the bartender and ask him this?" She asked with not just a hint of a laugh in her eye, but with audible guffaws so enormous that she nearly choked on her own amusement.

"Abso-f***ing-lutely I am." I told her, much to her chagrin and continued laughter. She was doubled up at this point, and I sincerely feared that she would be the one with a broken nose, as her face neared the unevenly bricked patio.

Now, life risking moment number 1.5 was upon me. Do I show off my mad hopping skills, and pogo it to the bar (at the entrance of the patio)? Or do I again risk the drug needle/spit-wad scenario avoided earlier? Drug needles and fluid it was. I gingerly stepped over to the bar and asked the bartender if he had a stapler or tape. He promptly said, you'll need to go inside for that. After I hastily held up my shoe and said in my best dead-pan, "My shoe is broken. I'm not walking in a bar barefoot."

Funny how when you tell someone how it is (with a nice tone and smile, of course), duct tape appears. Since duct tape fixes everything, my life was saved. Not to mention, I started a duct tape revolution at the bar as all the guys who had turned to watch me tape my shoe (They suggested I tape my shoe to my foot. Yeah, right! Think about pulling the genius quick-fix off... Ha!) suddenly found that they, too, had something that could be fixed by duct tape, and that now was the perfect time to do it.


Near death #2 happened tonight at the store. First of all, can I just say that wearing my 4" heels to work in retail for 6 hours is not the most genius idea I've ever had? I'd say it's right about on par with last night's suggestions of wrapping duct tape around my foot and shoe to avoid further barefoot drug needle escapades. Thank goodness I had the sense to bring my trusty gold flops, even if they don't really match the shades of gray ensemble.

A customer wanted to try on a pair of shoes that we keep in the back. I went to get them for her, and of course they had to be the top shoe on the top shelf of our tiny storage/office area. In the interest of time, I do what I always do... plant one bare foot in the middle of our little hot pink rolling office chair, and work out my thighs hoisting the rest of myself up. I will say, that I've been told not to do this, but I just can't be bothered with Snapper the ladder during customer crunch time! Not to mention that Snapper earned his name for a reason...

I'm usually pretty dang good at finding my equilibrium when balancing on the rolling trap of death and concussion, so I wasn't concerned at all when I had to reach up a bit higher than normal to grab the appropriate size. Well, I wasn't concerned until I over-compensated too far over to the right. I placed my hand against the wall a bit out of reach to the left, which of course put pressure on the outside of my foot, pushing my bottom half right while my top half was falling left.

For a moment, I looked like a star as one foot was firmly on a chair, the other foot (in the 4" stiletto) sticking out to balance me as far as it would go to the right, and my arms flailing out to catch my balance. As I stretched back into my original one-footed stance, I realized that my flail of horror wasn't over yet. In my attempt to re-position myself, I had thrown off my planted foot, and started falling again!

From the doorway I looked like a giant gray starfish, struggling to breathe when hoisted from the water, attempting a complicated ballet move. Leg to the right, arm to the left. Head held high, body doing the snake, I was falling backwards with just enough space to hit my head on the door as I plummeted to the ground.

Fortunately, my stiletto knew what to do! Spike stayed attached to my leg and thrust himself down into the ground, until I was firmly planted. He didn't bend or break, to my surprise, and within a second I had the shoe attached to my foot firmly back on the ground, and only a mild impact from landing on one tiny stiletto.

I didn't see my life flash before my eyes, just some dust that fell off the shelf as I stirred the air with my flail-for-my-life ballet moves. I never thought that I would be so thrilled to have sore feet from stilettos as I am tonight. Good work, Spike. You've earned your keep!