It’s getting to be that time… You know, when women start shopping for the perfect dress or dresses for holiday parties. It’s almost October, y’all, and no, it’s not too early to be plotting and thinking about that show stopping dress.
For some of us who need to shed a few pounds, or in my case a lot, thinking a month ahead of time isn’t outrageous. I have a gorgeous evening gown that’s seen too many holiday parties, and needs to be retired. And I want to drop kick my Spanx armor into tomorrow, hence the Weight Watchers and Jazzercise forays for the past 12 weeks. (Sometime I’ll tell you about the Spanx show and tell in a limo one year…)
Neiman Marcus has been teasing me with ads on Facebook, as has some company called JJ’s. In the past I would scope out the local Ross store, where I once scored a fabulous evening dress. The discounters like Ross, Marshall’s, TJ Maxx are so iffy to deal with, and then there are the people who think it’s okay to let their kids run amok there. (Ladies, I do not want your toddler, boy or girl, to stick their head under my changing room door again.)
And then there’s the footwear issue, and I’m not talking about fashion magazines.
Last holiday party was at a Houston location that looks like a Tuscan villa and fortress plunked into suburban sprawl. A prime wedding venue, it’s a great spot for corporate parties, although not in the same league as the Houston Museum of Natural Science. As I stood there at the end of the party with a cluster of people waiting on their cars, there was a common thread. Women were wanting out of those three and six inch heels, and they were in pain. A lot of pain. I feel those kinds of heels are like the original Hans Christian Anderson story of the Little Mermaid. You know, the real story where Arial was in agony to walk on land, but was dumb enough to do it for true love? Won’t go into that story now, but we all know it ended badly.
The crux of this is I can’t or won’t wear high heels anymore, and it has nothing to do with my innate clumsiness, or ability to fall over in any given moment. By my age, I’ve been to too many parties where my heels were wearing me, and no amount of alcohol made them comfortable. The end result is that I wear low heels or beautiful flats, and that means hemming, expensive hemming on evening dresses. No waiting until the last moment, unless you’re handy with double stick tape or a stapler, and that never works well. Triple wrong with a glue gun. Trust me.
Last year I wore low heels for the first time to DH’s employer holiday party, and he kept asking me how I was doing. This was conditioning from years of listening to me complain the entire evening how badly my beautiful pumps hurt my feet. I was happy, and didn’t fall down the beautiful stairs even once. At the end of that evening we were waiting for the parking valet to fetch our car. All around me I heard the complaints and sympathized with my fellow female party goers, but for once was NOT feeling like I’d pass out from the pain. I may be short and stout, but I’m no Little Mermaid fashionista footwear victim.
Wait, does that make me a teapot?