“A day without heels is a day wasted”
I don’t know how Paul convinced me to join him for an ice skating date, but I gave in after he called last Saturday to ‘hang out.’
It was two weeks after my sabbatical from the coffee shop, the one I had purposely taken after learning his ski instructor was a potential lady friend, and realizing I had no interest competing with Barbie.
I did ask about her when he called – Melissa is her name– but he told me they’re just friends, and she really is just helping him pick up the basics with Skiing 101 lessons. In fact, he’s setting her up with an old college buddy, and they’re turning out to be a great match.
I’m usually not the one dishing up the benefit of the doubt, but for whatever reason – maybe those dark eyes, that irresistible smile I know is cropping up while he’s talking to me on the phone, or his great taste in shoes (the boy deserves a little credit for his ECCO slip-ons) – my instincts told me to roll with this one.
So I accepted, we made plans that afternoon to head out to the ice rink for a fun and casual date.
With no experience in skating, I knew I was setting myself up for a challenge. Still, I had the courage to trade my 4” Moschino Peep-Toe Pumps for the gleaming white rental skates for the afternoon. Paul insisted that this was ‘child’s play’, and I trusted he would help me learn the art of balance on these dangerous-looking shoes.
One step at a time, I told myself, and managed to slowly walk out onto the ice without trouble. I did have practice trotting along on 5”+ heels after all, so my calves were well trained for an awkward stance or two. He stood right by my side, walking through the motions, showing me how to slide and step, step and slide, until we got a really good rhythm going.
Slide, step; step, slide; it was beginning to feel like fun, and I envied the little kids speed skating their way around the rink and even throwing in a jump now and then.
Until one of them came up behind me to give me a nice old nudge – a big push, actually where my rhythym turned into a semi speed skating event and I barely managed to catch my breath as I sped forward, slowly turning my head to see Paul over my shoulder as the look of ‘help me!’ spread across my face.
Of course, I was still moving at speeds I never knew existed, and hadn’t learned how to use the brakes – my only recourse was to hit something.
And I chose the railing up ahead to catch me.
It did a great job as I hoped to grab onto it and break my speedslide, but ended up hitting it with my skates first, and tumbled backwards onto the ice.
A little dazed, a little confused…
But in a great deal of pain, as I realized my left foot wasn’t exactly bending forward anymore.
Paul comes speeding up behind me. “Are you okay?” he asks, staring at my left ankle that looks, well, slightly out of place.
‘Umm, no?’ I glare back, my eyes questioning why he didn’t speed forward and save me forgodsakes.
‘We should call an ambulance’, he says and punches away at his cell phone.
And so I’m off to the ER for a full checkup, and the doctor affirms my worst nightmare for the day (besides missing the shoe sale at Neiman’s this afternoon for this moment);
“You’ve twisted your ankle. We’ll have to put a cast on it, so you’ll be off your feet for at least 2-3 weeks minimum”…and trails off with his do’s and don’ts of wearing the cast, when to visit next, etc. etc.
And so here I am, a twisted ankle from these ridiculous ‘shoes’ they call skates, and now stuck with only slippers or flats to get through my days.
I’ve entered shoe rehab.
Doctor’s orders require that I stay here for at least two weeks, fourteen gloomy days without any heels, two weeks of missed opportunities to strut with my latest and greatest.
And no sir, I don’t like it. I’m left with no choice but to dabble in the world of ballet flats – a pair of shiny metallics from Sigerson Morrison may just hold me together.