The weekend came and went in a flash, and you would think I was partying hard. Ha! Oh, those days are over. You won’t see me stumbling in at 6 a.m. anymore,
just 3 a.m.-ish because I know better.
These days, it’s all about the:
- Meeting one friend or a group of friends for a drink or two
(or three or four)over appetizers or tapas within the confines of a civilized establishment and not some basement “dive” where the entrance is the exit;
- Meeting friends (and your professional networks) for tea or coffee to discuss “business”
and gossiping about the latest scandal relating to an industry colleague or company;
- Meeting friends for dinner where the ambience is a bit more mature (but still not for your parents — Oh God, no! — we’re old but not that old);
- Listening to music over cocktails in a comfortable lounge, where you can still have a conversation without screaming at the top of your lungs, resulting in laryngitis so that when you walk into the office on Monday morning, everybody knows you were obviously out over the weekend (no, not everyone you work with needs to know your business, and laryngitis is often a dead give-away).
On the rare occasion when you get an invitation to do something different, you do it because seriously, how many lounges can you go to and how many sushi-Thai-Indian-tapas-fusion dinners can you have? So, out I stepped on Saturday evening to Madison Square Garden to the international USA Track & Field competition. It was great — sky box seats
(’cause that’s how I roll), drinks, food and a really nice group of people. It was an opportunity to see the stars of tomorrow (from local high schools), and stars of today — some of whom are heading to this year’s summer Olympics in London.
Okay, the above was a nice bit of information, but the following is much more important, especially for the ladies reading this post:
On my feet: One of my newest pair of platform heels — what I call, “stiletto fierceness” (#stilettofierceness — Yes, I created that Twitter hashtag).
Everything went well until the end of the evening when obviously my feet had expanded, thus forcing me to hobble out of the suite from the “The World’s Most Famous Arena” on to the street and into the subway. Not only did I see stars on the track, I also saw stars after the event was all over. If I wasn’t a grown up, I would have cried. Actually, I was crying inside — I just didn’t let it out
because I wasn’t “going out like that” — I’m no wuss. I was going to keep smiling through suffering.
But it was like a cruel twist of fate because I had to take the l-o-n-g-e-s-t walk through Penn Station to the subway platform and wait FOR-EVER for a train. As if it couldn’t get any worse, once I arrived at Grand Central Terminal, I realized my commuter train was leaving in 10 minutes. Aw, %@#! Are you kidding me?! I had to break out in to a light jog from the Shuttle — don’t get me started– to make it to my track on time.
I could not have taken my shoes off any faster when I hit my front door. I was exhausted from the stress and delirious
and thought I was on the verge of madness. My feet were on fire. My head hurt (and not because of the four vodka tonics) — actually, my whole body hurt.
The end result…
Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.
I know you’re asking the question, “Was it worth it?”
Oh yeah, it was worth it. Totally. I just have to “work” them in some more, and they will be the perfect Saturday night stomping shoes.
(Obviously, 48 hours later, I’m no longer dizzy, the swelling has gone down, the blisters are not as puffy, the burning sensation from the soles of my feet have subsided, and I’m completely clear in my thinking.)