And while we're on the subject of shoes...

These came in from the (e)mail today:

Chanson's shoes at age 5 (?) or 6(?), kept by mom all these years, unearthed last Christmas

Here, sitting alongside Chanson's shoes at age 30 (OMG I'll be 31 soon!!!!!!! Waaahhhh!)
My feet didn't grow so much, I realize. =D
Photos taken by my very handsome brother, Earl. Thank you for sending! =)

Not so high now, please

Nowadays, my compulsion to wear 3-inch heels has definitely mellowed. Call it growing old (cringe) if you will, but I seem to be realizing what a welcome respite comfort is, versus the second-by-second effort (the intensity varies, dependent on heel height/width) one needs to exert and all the balancing and pretending-to-be-completely-nonchalant-even-when-one's-feet-are-turning-blue thing when one is walking, or simply standing, in heels. It might even be the wearing away of the self-consciousness one experiences when the need to fit in (with the tall crowd? hahaha) dwindles away as one's self-confidence shoots up, that je m'en fiche! attitude one acquires after an epiphany of some sort happens, which has something to do with the acceptance of things, in general, and of one's real image/being, in particular.


So, I'm small, ehem, petite. So, sue me. Whatever the reason, sooner or later, that almost instinctive election of form over function begins to make less and less sense, until it reaches a point where its logic altogether disappears. I haven't reached that point yet (I would still never wear shoes or sandals that are totally flat--give me an inch and a half, at least), and I cannot be entirely sure if I'll ever get there, but things almost always change, and who knows perhaps I'll get there, someday (not that I'm wishing for it). After all, we are as tall as we feel. And, as far as I'm concerned, I've been feeling 5'9" high, recently.
=D

Happiness is a pair of killer heels.

Running in Heels (or something like it)

One of my greatest fears is to trip on my heels in front of a crowd. (Oh, heaven forbid!)

Because of this, I try my best to be careful when I walk, as I am almost always in heels during work days. No casual spectator would notice, though, that I am being very ginger when I walk. As a result of constant practice, I have mastered the art of walking--even running--in heels.

When I was still working in Makati, there was this one lunch time where, with a single-minded goal to be in on time, a paper bag of burgers and fries in hand and my hair flying in several directions, I had to run a block in three-inch stilettoes, nudging strangers along the way, ejecting mumbled apologies here and there.

Now, thanks to the relative laid-backness of Alabang (though it's fast on its way to rivalling Makati in pace), I have somehow avoided having to run a block in a race against time. The most I do right now is to sprint from the car to the office elevator, muttering expletives (to myself) for not having woken up earlier than the 75 minute-allowance which should have been, at least, an hour and a half, if I had wanted to spare my feet from more varicose veins and my shoes from premature wear-and-tear.

I am aware that I am a walking recipe for foot and leg injury, but this is the point I really wanted to make, and which I will pose in question form: how do you equate running in heels to the highs and lows of life?

:)

Shoes-ing: The death of the favorite pair

This morning, I woke up with the darkest, most hideous-looking under-eye circles ever. I mean, I've always had dark circles under my eyes but today's were fabulously ash gray! Oh, but the rice-Spanish sardines-white bagoong from Bicol combo breakfast made me forget them for a while. Yummy! (oh, but the pounds, ulk!)

Anyway, the above was a totally unrelated topic to the true subject of my post, which is something I had meant to blog about for the longest time, but just never came around to actually doing so. I'm talking about my all-time favorite shoes, which died a few weeks ago. They were actually dying many months before but I was in such a state of denial that I refused to acknowledge this fact and insisted on still wearing them even if they must've already been crying in agony for rest.

See, this Janilyn pair has been with me for years and years now and we've been through so many ups and downs together, seen tough times and happy times, rain and shine. I mean, we haven't always been the best of friends (the first few times I wore them, my feet spelled pain and blisters) but after the breaking-in period, everything became smooth-flowing. This pair had been my salvation whenever I found myself late for work and with no time to look for the shoes that matched my outfit as it looks good with practically anything.

I must've worn them to death, and now they're dead. Dead as dead can be, with no hope of ever coming back.

Just two weeks ago, I tried them on after dressing up, thinking, maybe it'll still work, just one last time. But sadly, when I slipped them on, I had the horrible feeling that the shoes were about to crumble so I gave up. Finally.

So I bought myself a new pair with the same color to make the grieving period a little easier.

It's a Charles and Keith pair, this time.


(left-the dead shoes; right-the new pair)

And while we're on the subject of shoes, the holidays brought me 4 pairs (3 pumps from Charles and Keith and dirt-cheap lace-up espadrilles from Artwork).



The maroon pair on the right was a gift from my co-wroker and dear, dear friend, Sheila. I love!

I still miss my old fave, though. But I know I have to move on, and move on, I will.

And Jackie is beginning to show signs that she will take after me. In this particular hunt for school shoes, she asked me to buy her pambahay slippers because the ones she had weren't pink and she had to have pink ones. It took her half an hour to decide which pair to buy!