Since I was starting my Friday evening at a lounge with friends, I was aiming for dressy-casual as I rifled through my closet. About half an hour later, my mind was made up: leggings, dress, and of course, the new slingback stilettos in lieu of those I ruined on my last “date” (RIP, Nine West pumps. I think of you often).
I don’t feel completely dressed without a pair of heels, and I couldn’t care any less that I’m six feet tall without them. I love their ability to make my jeans look a little dressier and my legs look longer, and overall, I feel empowered in them. I love my stilettos and consider them buddies who see me through good times and bad. No matter how much my feet hurt, I know that they only want me to feel and look pretty.
This particular evening, like so many others, there was no question what shoes were making the trek downtown with me.
I was approximately two drinks and three hours into my night when my friends and I finally found a table at our second venue. Our table was in the middle of the bar, one of those that doesn’t really allow for much more than a few martini glasses. I happily pulled up a barstool without a second thought.
The bar was crowded, so I tucked my feet under me and rested them on the bottom rung of the barstool, which inadvertently required me to hook my heels behind it. I thought nothing of this as I started catching up with my friends. It was an unconscious move, a force of habit. So naturally, when one of the girls was getting ready to leave, I thought nothing of leaning over to hug her.
And soon I thought nothing of yelling obscenities as I fell over and slammed to the floor, trying desperately to pull my feet away to regain my balance. I couldn’t unhook them fast enough, and both my kneecaps smacked the tile simultaneously, my stool clattering along with me.
My stilettos had betrayed me. It was as though I had been stabbed in the back by my best friend. Et tu, Bandolino?
Fortunately, my other friends scrambled over to help me up, laughing and occasionally gasping just long enough to ask if I was okay, which I was, despite the bruised ego and perma-blush I had going. One of the girls I was with reassured me later that she had done the same thing a year ago and actually had busted her kneecap. Which had led to crutches.
As I’m sure you’ve gathered from other posts, my lack of coordination is something I’ve accepted and lived with for a long time. Please learn from my mistakes and be careful with your heels, ladies.
I’m mostly just thankful that black tights are still wearable. Hopefully I can avoid any jokes or commentary about why else my knees might be black and blue.