The Virgin walks a mile in her shoes

#12 Never Have I Ever: Spent a whole day in high heels

Foreplay: Although I can understand a crippling shoe addiction, I can't exactly say that I fancy footwear superfluously. Except for that time I ran through 10 different shoe stores on Melrose to hunt down an outrageous pair of Jeffrey Campbell flats that look like pencils. And once I remedied a brain-frying finals week by rewarding myself with metallic silver oxfords which I deemed my "Michael Jackson shoes". And I should probably mention that my fierce purple oil Via Spiga peep toe pumps are currently the most expensive piece in my wardrobe.

Alright, so I'm fairly infatuated with shoes but nowhere near Carrie Bradshaw status. I could never imagine blowing a whole paycheck on things that are meant for the ground nor could I ever subject myself to cosmetic foot surgery -- unfortunately, I'm much too familiar with my budget and my pain threshold. How can anyone live in those?!

However, I always ogle statuesque women sashaying down the street, equipped with sky high stilettos, looking like they own the whole sidewalk. I own a good number of pumps, why aren't I wearing them? Why can't I look as kick-ass on a daily basis? Gee, wonder if those shoes are comfortable?

The Down and Dirty: In our haste to a birthday celebration in Long Beach, Kamikaze and I managed to pack a handle of Bacardi and a fifth of Grey Goose but not a change of shoes (we all have different priorities, okay!?). I wore my brand new Naturalizer pumps for a good 28 hours this weekend. I'll let my foot notes tell the story:

1 hour - So far, so good. We just got to the club but the DJ sucks and Kamikaze told him so. We refuse to dance in protest of his bad taste. I'm convinced a couple Long Island Ice Teas will cheer us up.

3 hours - A Long Island Ice Tea, a Screwdriver, a pineapple vodka, and a vodka Red Bull later and we're putting our hands up to "Single Ladies". Feet are frolicking away.

6 hours - Stumbling back to the car while stuffing my face with a green burrito. I'm not wearing a jacket. Everything is numb except for my very happy taste buds. I take this as a good sign.

14 hours - I wake up at my parents' house in Long Beach to perfectly poised feet and no signs of a hangover. I call it a successful night.

18 hours - Kamikaze and I go shopping. Every outfit I try on looks freakin' fabulous with my heels. I'm convinced that every dressing room should come equipped with a pair of stilettos. I guarantee sales would double by the end of the week.

21 hours - Toes are pinching, balls are balding, and bunions are budding. My shoes have turned against me.

24 hours - I meet with Hitchcock to work on his film. First on the agenda: painfully extricating my poor feet from my traitor footwear for the duration of the meeting.

28 hours - As I limp towards my car, I concede that I will never speak ill of flip flops again.

The Afterglow: Here is the conclusion I've reached based on my notes and the slow return of sensations to my feet:

Pro: My natural pony legs look absolutely spectacular. My body almost looks proportional.
Con: My cowboy gait. And I guess the grimace on my face sort of detracts from the whole looking hot thing I had going on.

Old woman who lived in her shoes -- my ass. Bitch probably died in them.