My heel was a little cracked before the night started. The weekend before, actually, is when the crack in the heel came about. I was just too lazy to find a shoe maker and hey, I have a lot of shoes. I’ll find another pair to wear out on Thursday night, right? Wrong. The outfit that I wanted to wear had to have the cracked shoes. And honestly, the outfit was more important than the well being of my ankle that could possibly break on the cobble stone streets of the Meat Packing District, it was non-negotiable.
On my way home Thursday afternoon, I happened to have the damaged goods with me and passed a shoe maker. How convenient. I went in and showed the man my damaged shoe; he took one look at it, shook his head, bit his lip and said “No. Unrepairable.” Damn. Well, that still wasn’t going to stop me. My brilliant self decided to pick up some black duct tape at the drug store and just tape my heel, surely that would work. And the best part? It was black and would blend right in, it was a foolproof plan. Again, I was wrong.
I was pleased with myself when I taped my shoe. This definitely had to work. I even walked around for awhile in my broken-but-now-put-together-again-with-duck-tape stiletto to get used to walking with it. I had a slight limp and leaned more heavily towards the right side of my body but those weren’t things people actually paid attention to anyways. Yet again, wrong.
The night started out great. I looked great (thanks to my outfit and shoes), felt great (thanks again to the outfit – not the shoes though, they were seriously doing damage to my toes because I couldn’t lean on the ball of my foot) and we had a fun night planned. We arrived at the trendy night club and it all went downhill from there. Literally.
I’ve been to this particular club multiple times and somehow forgot the flight of stairs involved when you first get in.
“You can do this Taylor, one foot in front of the other. Utilize your toes. No pressure on the balls of your feet.”
And then I made it down the stairs. I wouldn’t be so fortunate next time.
I felt great after my victory against the staircase and continued into the club. It’s a very crowded place, people were everywhere. But of course, in the sea of people, in New York City, from all over the world, in a crowded club, who do I see? My high school arch nemesis from Florida. Makes sense, right? I must have been in shock from seeing her face (which, by the way, her identity is kept confidential because I happened to have a lot of nemesis in high school) that I forgot about the mini staircase looming before my feet. Not only did I forget about the staircase, I forgot about my broken heel and took a forceful step forward in the opposite direction of said enemy and happened to fall down said mini flight of stairs. Shit. I’m on the floor. I muster all the dignity that I could find while I’m down there, and pick myself up. It was then I realized that I no longer had a broken heel. I had no heel.
After ‘The Fall’, I could have done three things:
1. Go home
I thought about it and decided to combine #2 and #3. I wasn’t going home. I made it all the way here, after all! And plus, I saw an ex-fling’s friend outside, meaning that Boy-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was inside somewhere. And I was going to find him. I grabbed onto the hand of my best friend (she didn’t know about the heel, I made a secret pact with myself not to tell anyone) and limped (no longer a minor limp at this point) to an area where I recognized people. Remember the mission “Find Boy-Who-Never-Called-Me-Back” that I mentioned about two sentences back? Well, I found him. We had a conversation (albeit minor) before I stupidly forgave him for his lack of phone usage due to “extreme work circumstances”. Not my words, his. And therefore, a lie.
My lip-locking session with Boy-Who-Lies came to an end when he told me that he’s going out of town this weekend. I’m going to go out on a limb here and call that Lie #2. Back to a more unfortunate situation than my non-existent love life; my non-existent heel. I was ready to leave once Boy-Who-I-Will-Probably-Run-Into-Tonight-Because-He-Isn’t-Really-Going-Out-Of-Town left, but I had the issue of the staircase. Also, it was late, I was tired, and I didn’t think I had the energy to walk across the club let alone up the staircase. There was only one foreseeable solution. I took my shoes off.
I took off those suckers, ran across the club, ran up the stairs (I should at least mention the condition of my toes: couldn’t feel them) and out of the club. I got a lot of looks but this is New York City, a shoe-less girl wearing a designer bag and a dress that cost more than I’m willing to admit is not the weirdest thing you’ve seen all day, people! Luckily, cab drivers are smart these days and just park outside of these overrated clubs waiting for girls like me, or girls like the one who left after me who was crying and had mascara running down her face. Probably because a boy lied to her, they seem to do a lot of that these days. As I was bolting through the cab I see the aforementioned arch-nemesis of mine, but I didn’t care. I knew I was going to find my oasis in the backseat of that smelly taxi cab and I was going to do it barefoot. I got into the cab, happy to be away from the terrible (understatement) night.
But the night wasn’t done with me yet. As I was enjoying my peace and quiet (and massaging my toes to get circulation back into them) I received a text from none other than Boy-Who-Acts-Sweet-But-Is-Actually-Evil:
“Hey – I had a great time tonight. See you when I get back. Hopefully your knee heals by then, I noticed you were limping.”
That was it. There was only one thing left to do. I lowered the window, looked at my broken shoe and threw it out. I wish it was salvageable, I had great times with that shoe. But at the end of the day, the shoemaker was right. It was damaged beyond repair. I would go on to find a new shoe, one that is reliable, sturdy and scuff free.
Until then, I won’t be taking any chances with broken shoes. Change the outfit, wear slip-ons if you have to, just do not leave the house with a crack in your heel. It can only lead to bad things. In the words of my favorite childhood fictional character, Alexander, “It was a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad” Night.
I might as well move to Australia.