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?”
(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.
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.