logs are a gamble. One, there’s a fine line between fashion and faux pas. Two, the very thing that ensures you don’t err on the side of frumpy, may very well serve your demise. A fashionable clog, you see, is made for sauntering. It’s made for long strides–deliberate steps marked with the occasional pause, one foot extended, hands on hips, head held high as if to say, Why yes, I am quite fabulous. One misstep and you’re doomed.
I thought was prepared. The clogs worn Saturday are brown, fur lined, with a platform sole and a heel you give an inch and it climbs a mile. They have the first step down. And while I knew I’d be walking downtown, to lunch, it’s usually a casual stroll–nothing of which to concern myself.
This was all right and good–until our return, when we hit four lanes of traffic, with seven seconds left on the clock, and the rest of my group decided to make a run for it. Like a lemming, I jumped right in after them. Almost immediately I lost one shoe and twisted my ankle. Nothing if not determined, I shouted a war cry, stuffed my foot back in my clog, and shuffled off. While the details are a bit hazy, apparently, in order to propel myself forward, eyes locked on the DO NOT WALK sign, feet in my shoes, I felt the need to hold my purse either up over my head or straight out in front of me.
The bad news: there were people waiting at the light. There were witnesses to this particular low point. I didn’t have the heart to look up and see if I knew any of them, if any of them were hot, if any of them were flipping me off, or holding camera phones.
The good news: I lived to tell the tale. I lived to sound a warning. So take heed, my friends, take heed–and mind your shoes.
Special thanks to the ever-talented Jessica Hische for providing us the Daily Drop Cap.