The Walk of Shame

Otherwise known as... Freedom from the Golden-Spiked Prison...

This evening, GDA and I met our small group of Happiness Project book study folks from My Small Town High School at Bongo's, for an evening of excellent Latin food, music, and of course, dance.  I wore my black with white polka dots ruffled skirt, a cute red shirt, and black cardigan.  My feet were adorned with the three-inch gold strappy heels so well-detailed in Shoe Shopping Can Be Dangerous.

They are great looking shoes, in their three-inch golden glory,

They make my legs look incredible, too.

They also hurt like... well... like something that defies description in the G-rated blog of a public school counselor. 

Now, when I first put on these lovely adornments, my feet feel no pain in the least.  It is only when I am on my feet for more than, oh... 20 minutes or so that the torture begins.  When I put them on tonight, I thought it might be a mistake.

I really should have listened to my wise inner sensible shoe self... but these golden shoes... are really... truly fabulous. 

Wearing fabulous shoes has a price.

I digress.

Tonight we met my friends for dinner, and when the time came, we danced two lovely dances on the dance floor-- a salsa and a bachata.  GDA and I twirled about the dance floor, meeting each other's eyes, smiling, laughing, and feeling so...much... love.

The best part?  I wasn't feeling any shoe pain in the least.  After the dancing, however, we watched other couples on the dance floor, GDA paid our check, and we began to walk through the interesting shops in Downtown Disney at our companions urging, and my feet... well... while I was not limping every ounce of my being was ready to be out of their golden-spiked prison.  After a few minutes, we begged off, citing getting up early to go to a theme park this morning.  (That didn't happen-- the weather had other plans for us.) 

As GDA and I began to make our way back to the car, GDA asserted, Baby, you can take them off in just a little bit.

It's okay, I think I can make it to the car.  

I didn't make it to the car.  As soon as we hit the part of the sidewalk which is beyond the House of Blues, I removed my shoes, and yes, I blessedly walked barefoot to the car. 

Oh, the utter shame of it all. 

The next time I go out, the sexy golden shoes will not be invited to the party.  I have decided that while I love them, they are not worth sacrificing a great time out with friends. 

There are more important things in life than sexy legs and cute shoes.  You can quote me on that.