No shoes, no dates

A sad, sad thing has happened. It is almost too upsetting to write about, but here you have it:

So yesterday, there I was, minding my own business, doing actual WORK at work, in a cute pencil skirt and, obviously, high-heeled pumps, when, gradually over the course of the afternoon I noticed that the ball of my right foot was in so much pain I could barely walk. By the time I got to my car at the end of the day, a 10-minute walk from my desk and down 3 flights of concrete stairs to the rapist-infested parking lot which is the only place my single mother budget allows me to park, I was in tears and came frighteningly close to launching my pretty brown croc pumps into oncoming traffic.

I drove home barefoot and hobbled into a foot clinic, where kind souls took pity on this sad, shoeless, limping girl, only to learn that I have pinched a nerve as a result of a) an unusually high arch (genetic and incurable), b) wearing down of the fat on the bottoms of my feet (Yes! A part of my body that DOESN'T HAVE ENOUGH FAT! Great news, but although I read something recently about women in New York injecting fat from other parts into their feet, I don't think this fits into my aforementioned single mother budget) but mostly it's because of c) my propensity to wear wildly inappropriate, though awfully pretty shoes ALL THE TIME.

Here's what the podiatrist said: pretty shoes are a treat to wear for short periods and special occasions that do not involve precarious activities such as standing and walking. If I do not want to end up completely unable to walk, I am henceforth restricted to a life of 1 1/2" heels and wedges. They have a word for shoes like that: they are called SENSIBLE SHOES. Oh, the horror. The despair. Only the female receptionist at the clinic could understand why my eyes were welling up as he went on about the virtues of wedges and the imperative nature of his warnings and showed me the Birkenstock catalog. Why me, I ask you? Why?

When I got home, one glance at my red patent peep-toe slingbacks was all it took to send me straight to the wine rack.

But of course, my biggest fear is this: Who will date a woman in sensible shoes? Why could I not have found a husband BEFORE this atrocity? How do you wear a pencil skirt with a low heel? Well, fear not, good people of the blogosphere. I am nothing if not resourceful in the pursuit of A Man I Do Not Hate. I will, from now on, carry with me a pair of sexy back-up shoes to slip into before dates and trolling (perched on a bar stool, I promise) or should I spot a handsome stranger. So I may have to buy a bigger purse. And obviously there is shoe shopping to be done, albeit sensible shoe shopping. Do they make sensible shoes in hot pink patent leather? I'll let you know.