Friday, May 23, 2008
We are gathered here today to remember my boots ... which, sadly, are no longer mine. They were the perfect boots, exactly the right heel height with exactly the right point to the toe. And the ability to be dressed up with a classy suit or dressed down with a tarty pair of jeans — no small feat where boots are concerned.
They brought much joy to this girl in their short existence as my boots (which were mine) and I shall miss them greatly. So let’s all raise a glass (or in my case a coffee mug) to my boots. They shall be missed.
And now for the tragic punchline. I work on the sixth floor and I take the stairs because elevators make me claustrophobic … and it’s good exercise. As I was running down them like a lunatic last night, I caught my right heel on the concrete lip of the fourth step from the bottom, snapped it right off and went flying. I R as graceful as a gazelle!
Actually I must be pretty fucking graceful, or lucky, because I somehow managed to keep myself from going head over now solitary heel which probably would’ve resulted in a few broken bones to match the broken boot. As it is, I badly dislocated two toes on my right foot. And let me tell you, if anyone ever says it doesn’t hurt to have a dislocated joint snapped back into place — even one as small as your toe — then they’re masochistic fuckwits who get off on pain.
Like the ER doctor, for example. Who cut off my boot ... because there was no way they could pull it off without gripping my foot which they at first suspected was broken (it’s not). So a broken heel could’ve been fixed but a boot sliced down both sides is good for nothing but the garbage. So now you have the explanation behind PSA's cryptic "boot and flowers" post from last night — 'cause he's the sweetest evah.
Of course, there is an upside (there's always an upside, you just have to find it). Once the swelling goes down and everything heals, I get to go boot shopping.