I TURNED 29 yesterday and as such deemed it essential to drink some bubbles and go out dancing to daggy nineties music with a bunch of my favourite humans.
We happened upon one of those kinds of establishments inhabited by middle aged American tourists and hens parties.
The kind of place where the soles of your shoes stick to the booze soaked carpet. Tres chic no?
Anyway, that's neither here nor there. I'm here to tell you about fashiony things.
But to be frank, the only fashion related thing I can think of at this present moment is how much my feet hurt from the heels I wore last night.
Somewhere between Cher and Shania they started throbbing.
Now in daylight hours and despite a good eight hours since I gingerly stepped out of them and crawled into bed, my feet are yet to forgive me.
Why, oh why, do we love heels so much when they do not love us back?
Truth be told I'm more of a sneakers girl.
Sneakers I can get on board with, sneakers love you back. But heels? They're like a big, delicious, cream filled, chocolate laden cake. You devour them.
You throw down your hard earned cash, you jump gleefully in. It's all so enticing, so yummy.
But ultimately it fills you with a feeling of regret and a looming fear that you've just embarked on something disastrous for your health.
And yet, somehow you know you'll be back for more.
I should have opted for flats; I should have gone down the sensible road.
But you know…. Birthday. 29. Dancing. Yadda yadda…
Oh those fabulous, little torturous encasements we so covet.
I reckon a man invented them.
Till next time,
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