After that, I went to Ladies Night, a Thursday tradition some friends of mine have. “What the hell are you wearing,” asked my friend Jessica, and I explained my mission to her. I asked her to hold the face she was making for long enough to take a picture, and she obliged.
When we got on the subway back to Williamsburg, my friends asked me if I was going to take the opportunity to go home and change. “Why would I do that?” I asked. “I’m in this to win it. What’s the matter, don’t you want to be seen with me?” Of course they did. (No they didn’t.)
When we got on the L train, I tried to converse normally but my so-called friends kept breaking into small fits of laughter. “I’m sorry, I just can’t take you seriously with those shoes on,” my friend Amy said. “I like how you know it’s a joke, but you still can’t help being mean to me,” I observed. I wiggled my toes, agitating them further.
UPDATE: My friends wanted me to add that they were not laughing about my shoes in this picture, but a dream Jessica had in which it was literally raining men. Whatever, guys.
Eventually my friends forgot about my feet, and we had a nice time at local bar Daddy’s. More than anything we’ve been through in the past, these shoes tested our bonds of friendship and found them relatively strong, so that’s something. I’d like to say the road test is concluded, but I still need to try them out at the gym and on my boyfriend. I predict that the gym will suck and my boyfriend will still want to have sex with me (I will insist on keeping the shoes on), but who knows? Stay tuned for updates.