The Anatomy of Agony

January 12, 2007 at 8:27 am | Posted in agonising pain worse than childbirth, ow, tight shoes | 28 Comments

Ladies, I salute you. For years now, I have listened to your gripes about wearing uncomfortable shoes in the name of style and sexiness. In all honesty, your cries for pity have fallen on deaf ears*. The main thing, you see, is that those four-inch heels give your calves definition, and make your already lovely arse look even perkier. Pain? Pah, go on outta that. A small price to pay for looking so gorgeous, surely?

In between Christmas and New Year, I popped over to Next to pick up a new pair of work shoes in the sale. The time had come to replace the squelchers. The sale zombies were out in force that week, and had devoured all but the gomiest shoes by the time I got there. Then, behold! buried under a pile in the “Clearance” section, I discovered a decent pair, reduced from £45 to £20. Result. A little tight when I slipped them on, but all shoes feel like that when you first try them, don’t they? Besides, £20 is my limit for work shoes, and the ones that would’ve fit properly were ridiculous prices like £25 or £30.

I went back to work this week.

Monday

Pulling the shoes on, I feel a mild pressure envelop my feet. I manage to get the shoes on, but not before scraping both Achilles tendons on the hard leather of the backs of the shoes. Cursing, I make my way to the train station.

By the time I arrive home that evening, my feet are hot and swollen, and my heels are chafing where the hard bits of the shoes’ve been digging into them. It’s bliss to kick off the shoes as soon as I enter the front door.

Tuesday

I wince as I pull the shoes on, as my feet are already a little tender from yesterday. I find that if I push my foot up to the top of the shoe, it minimises the scraping of the Achilles.

I limp home that evening with watering eyes and soak my feet in hot salty water.

Wednesday

I wake up dreading getting dressed. I whimper slightly as I pull the shoes on, feeling them pinch the widest part of my foot just behind the toes. A refugee tear crosses the border of my eyelid as I slide the shoes over the tattered flesh of my ankles.

Leaving work, the pinch across my foot has become a vice, the thread turning tighter with each step. I hobble to the train station and collapse into my seat with a gasp of relief. People look at me, then quickly look away.

Arriving home, I kick off the vices and revel in playing with the children before bedtime. Dad-dancing and singing kiddie songs turns to swearing and a piercing shriek of anguish as I accidentally kick the jamb of the door. My feet, which had been simmering all day, promptly boil over, and pain sears my entire body. There are no tears of pain because I’m too angry that I did something so stupid. I excuse myself from the family and go upstairs and punch the wall a few times. Takes away the pain in my foot, you see.

Thursday

I’m awake before my alarm goes off, having slept little. I groan inwardly, then realise I’ve been groaning out loud when Linzi asks me what’s wrong. I’m hesitant to moan about my feet, as she’ll give out to me for buying ill-fitting shoes. I tell her I need a shite.

My feet are unrecognisable as such. Splotched with purple and maroon, they’ve swollen to hobbit-like proportions, only without the copious coating of hair. My heels at the Achilles tendon are in raw bloody ribbons. I stuff tissue into my socks to counteract the incessant rubbing, which after four days of shoe-wearing, feels like a handful of razor blades rhythmically slicing my heels as I walk.

All day the antagonistic attack (left, right, left, right) continues. I mince home gingerly, sweating and snivelling like a stuck pig. I collapse into bed that night, exhausted, and I thank the gods that tomorrow is Friday.

Friday

God bless whatever gobshite in the corporate world came up with dress down Friday. I delight in slipping on my jeans and pushing my feet into the cushioned goodness of my Caterpillar boots. I bop to the train with a spring in my step, ready to concentrate on getting some work done for the first time this week.

I vow to never again be unsympathetic towards women’s shoe problems.

Have a good weekend.

*I do, however, provide foot massages several evenings a week, out of respect for the effort. Just to Linzi though.

PS: I’ve had a few visitors from IT2M, most of whom have lasted less than five seconds (thank you Statcounter). If you do happen to come from there and read to the end of this post, feel free to leave a comment, no matter how vitriolic. I can delete it later if it goes too far.

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28 Comments »

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  1. Next week! Kav masters the stiletto totter, but can he really rock the fuck-me boot?

  2. I tell her I need a shite.

    I had a good laugh over that one. Is this some kind of British/Irish “stiff upper lip” thing? Because the Spouse Sparrow has used this one on me before, refusing to admit whatever the problem actually is.

    Of course, in typical male fashion, whenever his stomach is in pain because he actually needs a shite, he will refuse to admit that.

    Oh, and whenever anyone complains about anything that is wrong with them, bodily-wise, he will tell them to go have a shite.

    Me: “My migraine is fucking killing me.”

    Spouse Sparrow: “Go have a shite.”

    Jesus.

  3. Oh man, that was truly hilarious. Thanks for making my insomnia worthwhile…

    Heh heh…”My feet are unrecognizable as such.”

    I hear that, brother.

  4. Kav, I bet your arse looked darling.

    Here’s one woman who really misses the days of Docs as high fashion.

  5. sassy, docs are out of fashion? er… oops.

    ‘A refugee tear crosses the border of my eyelid…’ that’s beautiful stuff, kav.

    i reckon i feel half your pain. i’ve got an ingrown toenail and i’m not happy.

  6. want a rent a goat guvnor? cheap, no questions asked – once used by a Pope

  7. You absolute daisy of a man. Get out the six heelers and run for a cab, got to a boring art opening, stand around for hours, walk all the way up Baggot Street looking for another cab, then get back to me about sore feet.

  8. TSL: I’ll leave the fuck-me boots to my other half, if it’s all the same…

    fat sparrow: Only the most refined gentlemen use such an excuse.

    whyioughtta: Merci beaucoup. They look like yer man’s face in Fight Club.

    sassy: Let’s get one thing clear, because between yourself and Sweary you seem to have decided that it was high heels I was wearing this week. It was not high heels, I tell thee.

    I like docs on a gedal. Shabby chic or some such term.

    gaijin girl: Oh God, ingrown toenails are worse…fucking agony they are. Worse than childbirth, I have no doubt.

    sid: What’s with this goat obsession of yours? It’s most disturbing.

    FMC: Daisy my hole. I’m more like a…fuck, I can’t think of a masculine flower. And here was me trying to be empathetic, when in fact I was in far more pain than any woman could ever tolerate.

    Heh.

  9. in my day we didn’t have shoes you ungrateful sack of spuds. nothing better than walking to school barefoot over shards of glass and burning coals with dog shit scattered on top

  10. What the fuck is IT2M?

  11. ams: Jesus, you must’ve lived in an awful neighbourhood.

    twenty: Welcome sir. IT2M (italk2much) is kind of a pisstaking review site. If you ever visited, I believe you would refer to them as a “bunch of cunts”. Thanks for the link.

  12. Footwear can be cruel. Prisoners should be made to wear ill fitting shoes.Might I suggest spraying some Ralgex on your bell end instead of punching walls to avoid costly repais to damaged plasterboard?

  13. I, for one, appreciate your very sensible acknowledgement in the vast improvement in the perkiness of my ass when I wear stilettos. I understand why porn chicks keep shoes on. Every little bit helps.

    Take your shoes to the repair shop. Hopefully they’ll have a stretcher to give you a little space.

  14. Try undoing the laces before you put them on. It helps, trust me I’ve been doing it for years.

  15. Your description made my bones hurt.

  16. Thank you so much for recognizing how much we go through to look good for our men!

    I say you set up a Paypal donation button for new shoes!

  17. I wish I had two good feet to hurt, you cunt!

    you know that if they turn up on yer shite meter and its zero minutes that just means they only looked at one page, they didn’t click on nothing else, I read that somewhere on the shite meter stuff, it made me feel better, you two footed bastard.

  18. How about orchids?

  19. The Scottish wedding is the ultimate test of a woman’s capacity for foot-pain. All that Stripping the willow and all these foot-stomping Dashing White Gay Gordons*. The dances are a bugger too…

    *Or is it the White Sergeants that are Dashing? Or the White Russians? Vodkas? I forget, on account of them being Scottish weddings.

  20. IT2M (italk2much) is kind of a pisstaking review site.

    Why would anyone take the piss out the serious business of reviewing other people’s blogs?

    I’m shocked.

  21. One must suffer for fashion you know. I sugges the ancient Chinese art of binding. Wrap your feet up tightly each night to make them smaller.
    Or just chop them off. You’d save a heap on shoes.

  22. there are a couple things that i won’t go cheap on:

    Stereo equiptment
    Strippers
    Parachutes
    Shoes

    be kind to your feet and kick down for a decent pair. Either that or stop wearing shoes and only wear trainers. That’s what I’ve done. Sooo comfy plus they make you look fit!

  23. I think it’s clear what’s really happened here…you bought them because you just HAD to have them. Am I right?

  24. eddie: Hmmm, an interesting choice of self-flagellation. My sister put Deep Heat on her sunburn once. Having seen the effects of that, I’d have to say I’d rather punch a wall.

    jali: God I have to go through it all again tomorrow…dreading it.

    jagd: Heh, smart. Except they’re slip-ons. Yes, I’m straight, why do you ask?

    melissa: I like my readers to feel something, even if it hurts.

    summer: Yeah, I’m still trying to work out how to get free stuff by blogging…could be my next career move.

    old knudsen: That’s very interesting. So all those 0:00 visits could be visitors after all? Well I’ll be.

    devin: Are orchids masculine?

    sam: Welcome along. Heh, I know what you mean – I got married in a Scottish castle and had to do the Gay Gordons and Dashing White Sergeant and all that shite. Good thing I was pissed.

    twenty: There’s the rub. Apparently they don’t call what they do “reviewing”. More like demolishing.

    steph: Nah. I tried that thing like that African tribe does with my balls a few years back, putting weights on them so they ended up dangling around my ankles. It ws a pain in the hole having to stuff them into my socks every time I went out.

    duckie: Don’t worry, these are a decent pair. Did you not see, they were discounted from £45 to £20? It’s just that they don’t fit me.

    marika: Yeah, I was all like “damn girl, I have got to get me a pair of these”.

  25. dude, they never REALLY cost $90. They are a pair of $40 shoes. Admit it. They are shite!

  26. Sassy said: “Here’s one woman who really misses the days of Docs as high fashion.

    Hear, hear. My greasies wore out years ago, and I can’t afford a new pair. In fact, when I did have money, and tried to find someone, no one knew what I was talking about. I still have them, in a shrine in my closet. Okay, I lied. It’s not a shrine. It’s on top of a bunch of other crap I’ve thrown in. But still, I kept them.

  27. duckie: Ok,ok. I stole them. From a charity shop for orphans with AIDS.

    fat sparrow: Why not just keep wearing them? I only stop wearing things when they break.

  28. cindy-lou: They’re getting more comfortable with each passing day. Soon they will fit.

    You know what I hate about dollars? They’re all the same size. You have to scrutinise to see if you’re holding a twenty or a dollar bill. It’s awful when you’re drunk.


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