That Little Voice

So this is how the conversation starts this morning:

Me: “I am going to wear my super fantastic I love them so much swanky heels to school today for my presentation.”

Little Voice: “Are you sure that’s a good idea ? It’s going to rain.”

Me: “Oh pshaw – I’ll walk barefoot and be a rebel without a rain boot.”

Little Voice: “Do you think it might be a good idea to take a pair of flats with you to school just in case?”

Me: “Pshaw – my feet are made of teflon and these shoes with 3 inch heels are so comfy womfy.  What could possibly go wrong ?”

Little Voice: “Well – Ok then.  But I REALLY think you should take flats just in case.”

Me: “Yeah, yeah – what do you know ?  I’m in a rush. I’ll be fine.”

As the day unfolds, the comfy womfy shoes that once rocked my fashion impaired world and catapulted me in to cool land begin to render me semiconscious with pain.  Just stretch them out, I think to myself.  Just undo the shoes and give the feet a break, my mind begs.  Just forget it you idiot, the feet are now dead …

The day comes to a close and I hobble my way out to the parking lot.  Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to take the damn shoes off and have that rebel moment.  My pride and fear of tetanus prevents the removal of satan’s version of Manolo Blahnik’s and I persist.  I see the van.  I feel the van.  I want the van.  And as I approach the van there is a decided wetness developing on the bottom of my right foot.

Little Voice:  “Power through Elizabeth.  You can do it !”

Me: “Shut the hell up you little sadomasochistic bastard before I choke you dead…”

Pain does funny things to a person.

Little Voice: “There’s no need to be snippy.”

Me: “Yeah, yeah ’cause now I feel SOOOOOO sorry …”

As I slide the backpack on to the back seat, tears are glistening on the rims of my eyes at the thought of taking the shoes off.  Just one van door away from blessed relief.  I hobble to the driver door, drag myself in the van and slowly begin to remove the shoes.  Oh sweet mother of pearl ! The torture is over but the pain throbs right at the base of each big toe.  You know where I mean ladies – that pressure point that we pound in to submission every time insanity persuades us that 3″ heels are normal and a good idea.  I break the law and drive home barefoot using the outside of my right foot to manage the peddles and resting my left on the oh so forgiving car mat.

I pull in to the driveway and am beyond hope of how I’m going to manage to get in to the house.  Perhaps I will suddenly learn to levitate ?  But alas no … no sudden discovery of super powers today.  Forsaking my school bag and any other un-necessaries, I begin the hobble of hope towards the bandaids.  Me who always keeps bandaids in my bag of course has none when I need them.  Damn that Murphy anyway.

As I sit and slowly bandage my battered feet, the conversation that was so rudely interrupted in the parking lot continues.

Little Voice: “How’s the feet?”

Me: “How do you think ?”

Little Voice: “Do you really want to know what I think ?”

Me: “Not really…”

Little Voice: “Dumbass”

Me: “Now who’s being snippy ?”

Little Voice: “Well I did try to warn you.  Perhaps next time you’ll listen.”

Me: “Yeah maybe.”

The lesson here my friends ? When that little voice is trying to tell you something, you should probably listen.  Hobbling through life is painful enough especially when it could have been avoided by just listening to that little know it all we all too often ignore. And those fashionable shoes that we all gaze adoringly at and think will transform our lives with orgasmic rock star excitement ? Yeah – just remember that the sadomasochistic man that made them probably never had to spend a whole day in them …  Break free from the hobble ladies, break free …

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