“Princess feet.” “Suburban feet.” “Feminist Whiner.”
No, I can’t just suck it up. Why oh why do women’s shoes so often turn into torture devices? Why does walking a mile in tiny kitten heels (for chrissakes) in New York City do this to my feet? (Warning: Not for the faint-hearted feet owners out there.)
Yeah, ouch. That thing on my toe is where the leather actually ground into my blister. I’m wearing five Band-aids today, because I also have 4 other blisters on the sides of my feet. I spared you from those photos. You’re welcome.
This crime scene pretty much means I can’t wear anything strappy on my feet for at least three days, and it’s 90 degrees outside, people. I do not want my feet clad in sneakers, but there is no way, until they heal, that I will risk the grime of NYC streets to come into contact with my open wounds.
And yeah, this pretty much means I’ll never win the truly batshit insane High Heel Race.
(Sure, it’s a rather dumb complaint, in light of other family and world events. I just wanted to complain today.)