High Heels in Winter

Not your typical girl, I own very few pairs of shoes. I don't like to wear uncomfortable things so when I find something I can walk in all day, I buy multiple pairs of the same style. For this reason, I love Payless. Year after year they have the exact same black flat casual sandals with the silver detail and the same pair of black flat shoes that I can wear every day. I have owned 3 pairs of each.

So it should not come as any surprise that when I have to dress up, I knew exactly which pair of dress shoes I will wear. Those being the high black boots with the pointy toe and high heal that were out of style long before I had the nerve to plunk down the dollars required to buy them.

But it's not just that I am cheap.

It's that I have a bad case of Cankles. If you are blessed not to be affected by this affliction, I will explain that it appears that my calf runs right into my foot, with no ankle in between. It's really a beautiful leg, shaped like a sausage with a foot stuck on at the end. Anyway, it took years to find a boot that would even do up over my calf. I will wear them until I die- Just because my legs fit in to their leather loveliness. In fact, for that reason, I might like to be buried in them.

So this past Sunday, I spent the day at an Open House at Bride on a Budget, down on Whyte Avenue. Ever the professional photographer, I donned my darling boots. Navigating the sidewalks and snow banks while carrying an over the shoulder camera bag with a hand held laptop bag was a challenge. Edmonton really doesn't go out of it's way when it comes to snow clearing. It's like we are left to tunnel our way through life for 8 months of the year.

But this is not a commentary on civic services. It is a monologue on why my legs are black and blue.

Anyway, I needed to scoot home as soon as the store closed to get Daniel to hockey on time. I was relieved to see the condo people had cleared a path to my front door. I hoped out of the truck, grabbed my equipment and confidently strode up the walkway, and then climbed the 5 stairs to my door.

I was relieved to find the front door open and when I pushed it open, Bridget was in the hallway yelling, 'Mommy!' in that heart warming way that would make strangers think that I had just returned from the moon.

In a hurry to greet her, I must have gotten over confident in my leather death traps and slipped on the outside mat, which, because it was nice and mild earlier in the day had frozen into a skating rink.

Of course, it wouldn't be like me to just slip. No, no, no. I had to slip and crack both shins on that evil sharp metal part of the bottom of the door, while my camera bag left my shoulder and flew past Bridget and into the kitchen. I don't know where the laptop flew to, but I do know its return trip had it clunk me in the back of the head.

I swear if the Eiffel Tower tipped over tomorrow, it wouldn't make so much noise.

Daniel flew out of the living room to see what had just exploded at the front of the house, and Jamie came thundering down the stairs. Apparently, he is used to these productions because hadn't even seen me laying on my belly, laptop on my head, papers scattered, camera and lenses all over the kitchen with my legs still out the door with the rest of me on the door mat in the porch before he bellowed, "Those Jesus Boots."

He wasn't implying they were Holy, or otherwise mentioned in any version of the Bible. Not at all.

Now, there I am, shins in such pain I didn't think I would ever move again. Daniel was busy taking inventory of what was broken and what had survived the fall. And then it happens. Just like it always does. He tried to move me.

I am still laying face down, with my cheek on the mat, convinced both legs are broken and he will throw the boots away. I don't want to be touched. I don't want to be moved. I just want to paramedics to cast me, right there, in the doorway- Without touching me.

He tried to pull my legs (which are up in the air at this point, at a 90 degree angle) inside the house to close the door. Neighbours were standing on our walkway, assessing the situation so he thought it was best to get my carcass out of the doorway. His moving me hurt like I can't describe so I holler, "Don't move my legs!"

I can't be the only person who doesn't want to be touched when there is a hot pain searing through their shins. Surely I am not. Well that was it! He starts about the boots, and what did I think I had on my feet in the dead of winter (as though high heeled leather boots are meant for the beach in the hot summer sun).

So from my position on the floor, where I was assessing the degree to which the porch needed sweeping, I yell, "I don't want to be moved! Give me a minute."

Agitated about the crowd of onlookers having a smoke in front of the house, he tries to pull my legs in again, trying to convince me that I am being irrational about all of this. So I say very calmly (though Jamie would tell you otherwise) "Do not touch me."

Well that was it. We were off to the races. He stomps up over the stairs. "Fine then, stay there- you are so mean to me! Mean, just like when you were in labour!"

 

Right. That's what he said. "Mean, just like when you were in labour."

That fellow has no idea what kind of old age home I am going to park his arse in.