Shoes

Walking a mile (or twenty) in my shoes ¹

The only thing worse than tromping around town in a torturous pair of heels is doing so alongside a man who has no empathy, legs that are freakishly long, and a unrealisticaly quick walking pace.

(I’m talking to you, Scott.)

My husband’s lack of patience for my footwear-induced slowness (and the cankle sprains that ensue) certainly doesn’t come from a place of malice or animosity. Like most men on the planet, he simply fails to understand the pain and suffering one endures when walking twenty-three blocks in a pair of stilettos that feel as if they’re crafted from broken glass and sandpaper.

“Katrina, those were two-hundred dollars! Aren’t the expensive shoes so expensive because they are more comfortable?”

Ha!

(For any men reading this post, that is absolutely not the way the women’s shoe world works.)

Needless to say, when Scott had his own walking-in-uncomfortable-shoes-catastrophe in New York last weekend, I couldn’t help but feel the slightest amount of satisfaction.

Fine. My delight was possibly more than just “slight”. Dare I say it, I experienced a deep sense of atonement. Redemption. Amusement, even. Judge all you want, but the phrase “Now you know how I feel!” escaped my lips at least a dozen times. It was finally Scott’s turn to be the one walking around the city in ~~painful platform slingbacks~~ a pair of not-yet-broken-in hipster boots.

The entire thing started out with the ten-mile run I mentioned in yesterday’s post. To feed my affinity for the overly dramatic, I’ll be referring to this afternoon jog as ‘The Urban Deathmarch’.

The Urban Deathmarch came to fruition around 2:00 on Saturday afternoon. Scott and I were staying with good friends in Brooklyn, one of whom is currently training for a half marathon next month. When we began mapping out plans for our Saturday in the city, she hesitantly informed us she had a training run planned that she really couldn’t skip out on.

“That’s fine!” I assured her. “I was actually hoping to get a workout in, anyway. I always feel so much better if I can fit a little activity in while I’m travelling. Plus, it’s a great way to experience the city. I’ll just come with you!”

“Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “Saturday is the day I do my long run.”

“Totally!” I chirped. “How far are you running?”

“This week I’m doing ten miles.”

Here’s the part where I mention that I went on my first run in over a year a mere five days before arriving in Brooklyn. It was barely a 5K and I struggled to maintain my 11-minute mile pace the entire way through. The resulting soreness caused me to walk as if I had just completed a 200-mile horseback ride for the next two days.

Clearly, ten miles wasn’t going to happen.

Still, I didn’t want to miss out on all the workout fun. I jogged along for the first four miles, ducking out a little early in order to preserve my untrained jello legs. (And let’s be honest, I needed the extra time to style my hair for a big night out in Manhattan.)

Scott, who hasn’t gone running in at least fourteen months, powered through the entire thing with more stubbornness than a Real Housewife of Atlanta. He swims every day and is in fantastic cardiovascular shape–surely it wouldn’t be a problem!

(Until the following day when he was the one walking like he’d galloped across the entire state of New York on the offspring of Mr. Ed without so much as a lightly padded saddle.)

Add to this the fact that he was then expected to traverse New York on foot while wearing a brand new pair of stiff leather boots, and an incredibly skinny pair of jeans, and you have a recipe for disaster.

“Katrina! You’re walking too fast!”

***

“Why aren’t you waiting for me?”

***

“Slow down! My feet huuuuuurt.”

****

“How many more blocks??”

***

“It’s not nice to walk so far ahead of me!”

***

“Is this what girls’ feet always feel like?”

*****

While I’m glad Scott’s feet are finally back to normal, I’m also quite glad he now understands first-hand how I feel when trying to keep up with his mammoth stride while donning an excruciating pair of Sam Edelman peep-toes.

But mostly I’m just glad I had the gumption to digitally capture the spectacle that was him, walking up several flights of stairs as if he were 94 years of age.

He’ll never run ten miles again. (OR become a drag queen.)

Not that he ever has been a drag queen, or anything. But were he ever to experience a sudden hankering to dress like a lady man, I’m pretty sure the knowledge of what walking in heels actually feels like would completely deter him.

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“Beauty takes pain” ⁹

Disclaimer: You may not want to read the following post if you have issues with looking at unsettling photos of feet. My feet, if we’re getting technical.

(There. You’ve officially been warned.)

(Umm…you also may not want to read this if you’re Tory Burch.)

(Although I think we all know Tory Burch doesn’t read this blog.)

(Although if you somehow are Tory Burch…I would love some free handbag swag. Particularly the ‘Amanda’ leather hobo in black…but only if you have, you know, extras lying around or something.)

****

“Beauty takes pain, Katrina.”

These are the words my mother would speak to me each time she mistakenly burnt my forehead with the curling iron. While Mama Leslie possesses many valuable skills, maneuvering heated styling tools is certainly not one of them. Unfortunately, as a young child I didn’t know any better, and my skin was frequently scalded on accident. (I think this is the reason my parents insisted I have bangs until the age of thirteen.)

Whether or not you’ve been the victim of a curling iron, I think we can all agree that at times, our appearance takes presidence over our level of physical comfort. Need proof? Look no further than Botox, bikini waxes, tattoos and even high-heeled footwear. Looking good comes at a price, and often requires a maximum dose of extra-strength Tylenol.

But when does the price become too high to pay? There’s a significant amount of grey area surrounding the line that divides reasonable from ridiculous — ultimately, the level of discomfort we choose to subject ourselves to is a personal choice. Pain is a relative concept, and it’s up to us as individuals to define our own boundaries in regards to the sacrifices we’re willing to make for style.

I’m beginning to learn that as I grow older, my tolerance for pain is rapidly shrinking. If “beauty takes pain” then I might as well resign to a life of homeliness–or at the very least, a life of ugly shoes.

Some of you may remember Scott’s grand gesture on Valentine’s Day last year. (Truly, it was less of an act of love than it was a tactic to avoid a Katrina-style meltdown on the most romantic day of the year, but I take what I can get these days.) I’d been pining over a pair of Tory Burch Reva flats for months, and had begged Scott to gift them to me as a Valentine’s Day “surprise”. Buying the shoes ended up being a huge investment not only because of their $195 price tag — Scott was involved in a minor car accident while picking them up, which ended up costing an additional $500.

My husband literally went through hell to get the shoes, and while I did feel a small tinge of guilt, the vast majority of my being was utterly delighted with my new footwear.

Until I tried them on.

Anyone who owns a pair of Tory flats can attest to the fact that they are about as comfortable as a Chinese torture device. It wasn’t a sizing issue — the pair Scott picked up for me fit perfectly–yet they still hurt more than salt in a paper cut. I chalked it up to the notion that they weren’t yet broken in, and wore them religiously for the next month, assuming they would gradually grow more comfortable.

This never happened. I could only keep the flats on for an hour or two before they started wreaking havoc on my poor little feet. At this point it was too late to take them back, yet I didn’t want Scott to think I was ungrateful for the $200 ballet flats–especially as purchasing them was partially responsible for a $500 fender bender on Interstate 94. To solve for both problems, I began only wearing the shoes on occasions I knew would be three hours or less–this way Scott would see that I was enjoying his present, yet I wouldn’t be wearing the shoes long enough to put me at risk for an above-the-toe amputation.

For the past nine months, I have carried on this hopeless charade. Most recently, I wore the shoes to Scott’s 30th birthday celebration in Omaha. Things were going swimmingly until we hit up a local dance club at the end of the soiree. For just under two hours I shook my body to the the blaring house music as vigorously as possible, with no concern for the pain radiating through both of my feet. (The fact that I had been wearing a skirt made entirely of leather fringe may have encouraged such wild, irreverent hip shaking.)

A few hours later I should have been sound asleep. Instead, I found myself lying miserably awake in my sister-in-law’s guest room, unable to drift off to peaceful slumber as my big toes were throbbing furiously. Not that I would know…but I think it may have been almost as bad as childbirth.

I blame this on you, Tory Burch.

The pain continued for a good 48-hours before eventually subsiding. I had honestly forgotten about the entire incident until last night when I went to remove my toenail polish.

I’m sorry you had to see this.

No… I don’t have toenail fungus. The discoloration you see above is a bruise that was given to me by those freaking shoes.

Um…I mean the beautiful pair of flats my husband so generously gifted me for Valentine’s day after weeks and weeks of relentless begging and if I’m being totally honest, a couple of “motivational” threats on my part.

(I suppose this is the karma that happens to those who guilt-trip their spouses into buying designer shoes.)

Oh…and my toenails are white at the top because they’ve been covered in nail polish for five years straight. The woman at the nail salon assures me this is normal and will go away after a few weeks without polish. Unfortunately, that won’t be happening anytime soon as it’s going to take at least six months for these hideous bruises to grow out.

When my mom said “beauty takes pain”, I don’t think she meant that cute shoes are worth toes that appear to have severe frostbite. It is for this reason that I’ve ultimately decided to hang up my Tory Burch flats for good. Yes, this will probably upset my husband, and yes, I’m finally admitting the shoes (which were my idea in the first place) were a complete and utter waste of two-hundred dollars. But at the end of the day, if you don’t have your big toes, you truly have nothing at all.

And so, if ever I am fortunate enough to have a little girl of my own, each time I accidentally burn her forehead with the curling iron, I will say “Beauty takes pain, honey. But remember…if you don’t have your big toes, you have nothing at all.”

I know…I should totally write a book on parenting. (And use the royalties to buy designer shoes that are actually comfortable.)

****

Main photo by Annie Mole

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You want what you can’t have. ⁸

Yesterday, my American Express card in one hand, my computer mouse in the other, I engaged in a knock-down, drag-out shoe battle.

Correction: I won a knock-down, drag-out shoe battle.

And no, “battle” is not too strong of a word, but I’ll get to that in a moment.

*****

I’ve been crushing on the spiked heels trend for quite some time now. I adore the contrast of a feminine peep-toe silhouette covered with a spray of villanous-looking spikes. Truly, any piece of fashion that doubles as a weapon capable of stabbing is a winner. Am I right?

When I received an email from HauteLook informing me that Sam Edelman’s line of shoes were the daily special, I was intrigued.

Screenshot via Hautelook

Each time I stop in at Nordstrom, I pay a visit to my beloved Sam Edelman Lorissa Pumps. They are expensive, impractical, and blatantly ridiculous. They look like they are trying way too hard. And they most certainly won’t ”fit in” in rural Minnesota, despite their best efforts.

Essentially, they are the footwear version of yours truly.

Despite the fact that these shoes are quite possibly my soul mate, there are several reasons I’ve decided against purchasing them. First — they run a cool two hundred bucks. Second — at five inches high they pretty much guarantee another sprained cankle. And third — I’m willing to bet my new diamond earrings that on a good day, they’re about as comfortable as a Chinese torture device.

But perhaps most importantly, I’m fully aware of the fact that I live in a small Midwestern town.

And work from home.

And that no matter how desperately I wish I was the type of person who was invited to galas, fashion shows and red carpet events, my nights on the town usually involve a trip to the Pizza Ranch buffet, and if I’m lucky, a night-cap at Applebees.

All this is to say, I need these shoes about as much as Jolie needs braces.

Although her teeth are a tad bit crooked. (And let’s not deny the obvious fact that she has a socially debilitating overbite.)

I quickly closed my email and opened up Facebook. Surely, perusing through a couple of Instagrams and status updates would be distracting enough to make me forget all about the shoes.

Screenshot via Hautelook Facebook page

They were literally the third thing in my news feed, you guys.

When the fashion goddesses give you a sign, you don’t ignore them.

While I was delighted to see that the shoes were on sale for 50% off, I just couldn’t do it. My inner rationale (yes, it does exist) had a few too many objections. I tried to stick to my pathetic new mantra that if it’s not something I can wear to Wal-Mart, I probably shouldn’t buy it.

Eventually I noticed that I couldn’t even order the shoes if I wanted to — the style I liked was on hold in my size.

And just like that, I had to have them. Funny how that works.

HauteLook allows patrons to place an item in their cart and “reserve” that item for a maximum of fifteen minutes. After their time runs out, the item is available for someone else to purchase. In regards to the size chart below, an “x” means that size is sold out, while a single line means it is simply in someone else’s cart.

I knew if I timed it just right, there was still a small chance that I might be able to crush all my fellow shoppers, snagging a pair of seven-and-a-halfs for myself.

This? This is precisely why competitive jackholes (AKA: Katrina Taylor) should never be allowed to shop online. Unfortunately, the only one home to keep me in check was Jolie, who was completely preoccupied with a stray crouton that was stuck under the fridge.

I sat up straight, took a deep breath, and did what any other shopaholic in my position would do.

I started refreshing the page.

And refreshing.

And refreshing.

Twenty minutes later, my size was available. My right hand, shaking with nerves and adrenaline, selected the box marked “7.5″ and quickly added it to my shopping cart.

The scream I unleashed when informed the shoes — my shoes — had already been added to another cart was enough to send Jolie scampering away from her beloved crouton, and into a pile of laundry for cover. Suddenly, a pair of shoes that I wasn’t even considering thirty minutes prior became the central focus of my life. If I couldn’t have them, no one could have them. Those shoes were mine. IT WAS DESTINY.

(In all actuality, it was a beyond brilliant marketing/social media scheme…but it sure felt like destiny.)

I spent another twenty minutes frantically refreshing the page while chugging three mugs of coffee and sweating profusely. I must have reloaded my browser 500 times.

(I also happened to be wearing a bathing suit. While totally irrelevant to the plot, I think this small detail helps convey just how pitiful the entire scene was.)

Just when the cramp in my hand became almost unbearable, my size opened up. The rest is all a blur of credit cards and victory dances. Without even realizing it, I had dropped $99 on a pair of shoes that I’m not entirely sure I’ll ever be able to wear.

But in my moment of shopping victory, none of that mattered.

I had won.

Told you I was wearing a bathing suit. (Audrey Hepburn is totally judging me in the background.)

I think this image encompasses everything that is wrong with me as a human being.

I am materialistic, competitive, ridiculous, and have questionable taste in footwear.

I also choose to randomly wear bathing suits around the house and am careless with my croutons.

But if it ever comes down to it, I can defend myself with an incredibly dangerous pair of peep toe pumps. I think that has to count for something—right?

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Christmas in July ⁴

I’m sure it comes as no surprise that I was kind of a bump on a log this past weekend. Breaking your cankle and consequentially being unable to walk will do that to you.

Alright…technically I can walk. Kind of. There’s some serious limping involved, and people keep asking me if I would like a wheelchair or crutches.

While I don’t think a wheelchair or pair of crutches are necessary, I would like a disability parking pass so that I wouldn’t have to limp so far whenever I need to run an errand.

Correction: So I wouldn’t have to swagger so far.

Yes–I’ve replaced “limp” with “swagger” as a last-ditch effort to salvage some of my dignity. (So far it hasn’t been very effective.)

I’ve been considering using Scott’s old brace from when he broke his neck as a makeshift handicapped parking permit. Surely, no one would question a vehicle with a soiled neck brace dangling from the rearview mirror, right?

I suppose we’ll never find out as Scott tossed the brace out the instant his neck had healed. Leave it to him to save me from myself without even knowing it.

As luck would have it, last weekend was the first time in ages that Scott just so happened to be full of energy he wanted to expend. Swaggering across town didn’t seem like my idea of a good time, so he was left to his own devices.

Once given permission to do whatever he wanted, so long as it didn’t involve bouncing around the living room asking me if I wanted to go to the lake for the fiftieth time, he jetted out the door. Approximately ninety minutes later he returned, complete with a guilty smirk painted across his cute little face.

“Where have you been?” I asked, my voice infused with a hint of concern.

“Oh…just the nursery,” he coyly responded.

“Why on earth would you go to a nursery?” I screeched. “People are going to think you’re a child molester or something!”

Scott rolled his eyes.

“It was a nursery for plants, not a nursery for babies.”

Oh. Right. Obviously.

“Okay…but why? We just bought a ton of new house plants at IKEA…what could we possibly need at the nursery?”

“I had to replace that hydrangea you killed.” he shot back.

Ah yes…the hydrangea. Hydrangeas are easily my favorite blooms, and also happened to be our wedding flower. A few weeks ago, we picked up a beautiful plant with blue blossoms to help bring some color to our back deck.

The plant started out looking like the floral version of Heidi Klum at the Emmy’s. It ended up looking more like the New Jersey tanning mom.

Leave it to me to prove that hydrangeas can in fact get skin cancer.

Scott ended up replacing the dead flowers with a brand new bush of lime green hydrangeas, which I prefer anyway. The downside is that unlike the blue flowers, which only required a weekly watering, the green versions need to be watered on a daily basis. I’m going to try my best to remember to keep them hydrated…but I’m not making any promises.

“So…how much did you spend?” I inquired.

I took the long pause and shuffling of feet to be a very bad sign.

“One hundred and twenty dollars.” Scott finally mumbled.

“One hundred and twenty dollars?!? On a hydrangea??!” I screeched.

A child-like smile slowly spread across Scott’s face. He looked up at me, his expression a mix of guilt and delight.

“I kind of bought a topiary.” he confessed.

It was the absolute best excuse he could have come up with — honestly, I couldn’t even be mad, despite how badly I wanted to. I’ve always dreamed of having a topiary. Actually, I’ve always dreamed of having a hedge maze, but a topiary is a good start, what with us not having a yard and all.

“I love topiaries!” I exclaimed, “What shape did you get? Circles? Is it an animal? Oooh, I know! We could pay someone to shape it like Jolie!”

“It’s just a tree, it’s not shaped or anything. It kind of looks like a cone.”

While disappointed I wouldn’t be adding a green, bushy seahorse to my deck, the idea of a topiary excited me. Plus, it was a blank canvas. If I was feeling inspired, I could try my best to sculpt it into something fabulous over my lunch break. Perhaps a handbag? Or a silhouette of me Turbo Kicking?

Just then, Scott burst through the front door with the newest addition to our plant collection. My jaw instantly hit the floor.

Let’s just say it was less of a dainty topiary, and more of a giant Christmas tree.

“Umm…that’s kind of big…don’t you think?” I asked.

“Nah. We need something big to fill that back corner out there. I think it’s going to be perfect.”

“It kind of looks like a Christmas tree.” I remarked.

“Exactly!” Scott exclaimed. “I figured this could be our tree this year…we can just add some lights and keep it outside. That way we don’t have to drag out that stupid fake tree in the garage.”

This is the part where I call blasphemy.

That “stupid” tree is a beautiful, pre-lit, Martha Steward creation that I woke up at 4:30am on Black Friday 2007 to claim. I literally drove through a blizzard to get to Macy’s in time for their opening, and then hauled all seventy pounds of that “stupid fake tree” down two flights of stairs and through eight inches of parking lot snow where I then proceeded to spend twenty minutes figuring out how I could possibly fit it into the backseat of a Corolla.

That tree didn’t just cost $99. It cost me my self-respect, a hefty portion of my mental well-being, and what would have otherwise been a really good hair day, had it not been for the stupid snow.

That tree is not getting replaced.

But I’m open to the idea of giving it an outdoor friend.

“Can I put some decorations on it?” I asked hopefully.

A verbal answer wasn’t even necessary. It was clear from the look he shot me that the answer was “no”.

At this point I may have performed the most pathetic swagger I could muster, dejectedly dragging my lame self across the spanse of our living room as a final attempt to change his mind.

Let’s just say this strategy was quite unsuccessful. You win some, you lose some.

Fortunately, Scott has great taste when it comes to all things plant-related. The topiary looks perfect on our back deck, as if it should have been there all along. I’d go so far as to say that I don’t think I’ll even need to shape it into a handbag after all…it works beautifully as a year round outdoor Christmas tree.

Don’t let this photo fool you — that thing is almost taller than I am.

Yet still…I couldn’t help to think that it was missing something.

Decorations were obviously out…but Scott never said anything about presents.

Christmas topiary with Tory Burch shoe box

There…much better.

I mean…it’s completely preposterous to have a Christmas topiary without any presents beneath it. Just ask Santa Clause. Plus, checking the topiary for gifts each morning will be a great way to remind myself to water the hydrangea while I’m out there.

It’s called multitasking, people.

Although, I’m not quite sure any of the future presents I might find beneath it’s oh-so-Christmasy branches will be able to top my beloved sandals. After receiving a fabulous pair of Tory Burch Flats for Valentine’s Day that accidentally cost $500 more than they were supposed to, my addiction to all things TB has been slightly out of control. I’ve been eyeing these logo thongs for months, and bought them online last Saturday morning after drinking an extra cup of coffee and suddenly realizing that life is far too short to wear ugly flip-flops.