Skip to main content

High heels take away a woman's power!

On a lark, yesterday I wore high heels to work. These high heels:

I had been talking to a girl who works there about boots she's going to buy, and I mentioned I had bought these heels over a year ago but never wore them. Not even once.

So, thinking about the shoes got me thinking about the shoes. And, as a last minute decision on my way out the door Friday morning, I switched my socks to nylons and pulled out these puppies.

Never again.

Don't even get me started on trying to scrape the ice off my vehicle with these frivoloties on my feet. I nearly slipped under the vehicle a couple of dozen of times (my frantic hand prints remain on the side of KITT from the times I flailed out for some sort of lifeline).

I had to take the heels off to drive, otherwise my foot couldn't flex down far enough to urge my car faster than the idle propelled it.

Then there was the parking lot ice rink I had to traverse in order to reach the two-story metal grate stairs to the front entrance of the office (perfect heel tip sized grates, btw).

Once in the office, if I didn't want to sound like a jackhammer clipping along, I had to shuffle along on the balls of my feet over the tiled floor all day. Finally I decided to just take the heels off and scurry in my stocking feet if I had to go further than the length of my desk.

The final insult was after I came back from lunch and saw the man who operates our enormous testing van. I delicately tick-tick-ticked along the icy parking lot, calling out to ask if I could take a look inside the van. With a seriously concerned look on his face, he watched me take my embarrassingly small trotting steps closer and closer to him. This is a man I have worked with for weeks -- who never once before had ever looked at me like he best just throw me over his shoulder and walk me someplace himself for my own good.

High heels take away a woman's power. They reduce us to feeble baby-stepping charity cases. No more, I say. Perhaps for a dinner date. Tink-tink-tink to the car. Take them off to drive. Tink-tink-tink to the restaurant. Sit, eat, enjoy some conversation. Tink-tink-tink back to the car. Take them off to drive. Tink-tink-tink back to the apartment. But that's about all they're good for.

Comments

Anonymous said…
cool blog friend!

Popular posts from this blog

A Picture Puzzler

A friend sent me another picture from the wrap party. As I looked at it, and recalled the good times, I was struck by something really unusual. See if you can spot it: I'll give you all some time to guess...

Batten down the hatches -- we're in it for the long haul!

Given that the weather reports for Edmonton this weekend are grim grim grim (lows of minus 33, highs of minus 25 -- with wind chills of around minus 35 to 40), I woke up early this morning to get all errands for the weekend out of the way in one fell swoop. I barely needed a coat this morning as I headed out to my car to embark on my mission. With each passing hour, the thermometer dipped a degree or twelve. By time I was done driving around (and paused to catch a movie at the neighbourhood googolplex), it was chill-lay outside. I am now snuggly boarded up in my apartment, with no plans to so much as peek my nose out my window until Tuesday (when the temps shall return to a balmy minus 15). Groceries? Check. Toiletries? Check. Magazines to curl up with? Check. Christmas Presents? Check. Lessee, I got my father what he's been asking for since I was old enough for him to give me his Christmas wish list: And I think my mother will enjoy her bungalow by the stream: For my sister and he...

And they called me mad when I bought the bunker in the woods!

I had heard that one way of thwarting telemarketers was to make them think the number they have dialed is in fact a fax machine.  I've tried different tones on my cordless phone, all to no avail.  Then I had an epiphany: When I turned sixteen, my sister bought me a new-fangled telephone.  It had push buttons, but it was still just a rotary phone - when you pressed each button to dial, you still heard the rotary "tat-a-tat-tat-tat" with every number.  I had held onto this phone ever since.  It's cute.  It works.  There was no reason to get rid of it. I was willing to bet that, in this day and age of advanced technology rendering yesterday's device obsolete on a daily basis, a telemarketer - who is likely going to be decades younger than my phone - would be unable to even identify a rotary phone by sight much less by sound. And voila!  Answering the phone with my rotary phone, and constantly pressing the buttons, the telemarketer kept repea...