One night last summer, I went out for a girls-only night in a silky black skirt and a pair of four-inch heels. I don’t know what made me reach for those shoes, but I put them on as though it was entirely ordinary. Just as though it was entirely ordinary for me to go out in a whole flock of chicks.
I was all good for the first two hours, which we spent on stools at one place and then perched around a table at another bar. I didn’t last long on the dance floor, though. Even standing still, I felt like individual bones in my feet were breaking in quick succession. If I sat down alone to take a break, I became the target of smarmy guys out on boys’ nights with their wingmen.
There comes a point when discomfort makes me cranky and when I reached that point, I bailed on the girls. And that’s how I found myself waiting for the train at Second Avenue with two hobos passed out on the bench and a handful of 20- and 30-somethings calling it a night.
Nearly breathless from the pain that shrieked from my shins to my toes, I limped to the bottom of the platform stairs and hoisted myself on to the silver railing. It wasn’t a comfortable perch, but if I draped across it at a certain angle and sat up straight, I could keep my balance and give my feet a break.
And if I hooked the heels over the lower crossbar, it bore the dead weight of my feet and eased the throbbing agony.
Once I got situated, I flipped my cell phone open. But I must have overflipped because it flew out of my hand. It was a reflex to reach out and try to catch it. My upper body forgot that my lower body was essentially incapacitated. I pitched forward like a top heavy ventriloquist dummy and hit the filthy cement floor knees first, my shoes still latched on to the railing. Like I’d been strung up by my ankles.
To untangle myself, I had to twist to one side, scraping the back of my thigh on the ground just to get my feet to join my butt on the floor. I felt about as graceful as a beached whale. In stilletos. And a miniskirt.
A few people shot sympathetic glances in my direction (the sound of 130ish pounds of girl and evening bag dropping to the floor from midair had drawn attention). I also caught a few rolled eyes that said, “Hail a paddy wagon. Next stop: Drunk Tank!” I resisted the urge to announce, “I’m not a drunk! I’m just a klutz!” I just smiled. And climbed back up on the railing. That time, I managed to catch myself before I hit the floor, and then I sat right down on the steps.
The bruise on my left knee lasted for two weeks. It was shaped like Australia.
I swore off those shoes. Last night, I left them in front of my building in a cardboard box, along with a few shrunken knit tops and a pair of old PJ pants. By morning, they were gone for good.
