I’m standing in a ballroom at the prestigious Capitol Club, wearing my good suit and a pair of George’s shoes. It’s best if I stand still. I wear a size 13 1/2 wide. George is a 10 narrow. It took me twenty minutes to get these loafers on, feeling not unlike one of Cinderella’s stepsisters. I’m becoming increasingly concerned that at any moment the shoes will give up the fight and explode, freeing my giant feet from their confines and drawing no end of unwanted attention.
I have a standard policy that I will not wear dress shoes unless someone’s dead, but George insisted this occasion called for decorum. I was persuaded, but for only one woman in the world:
I have a standard policy that I will not wear dress shoes unless someone’s dead, but George insisted this occasion called for decorum. I was persuaded, but for only one woman in the world:
Martha Stewart is less than ten feet away from me.
My friend Rich had a ticket to the reception in Martha’s honor. He managed to get me in, knowing that if he invited anyone else, I would set myself on fire.
We’re moments away from actually meeting her. I can’t tell if my shortness of breath is from nerves, or my suspicion that my feet are actually bleeding at this point.
And here we come to a helpful hint: If your shoes are so small that they’re causing you to limp, just accept the limp and go with it. If you attempt to overcompensate and walk normally, you will end up looking like you’re doing the Mashed Potato, which is fine if it’s 1963, or you’re partying at Little Richard’s house, but will do you no favors at a cocktail party for the Eva Peron of housekeeping.
Rich says she’s ready for us, and I do my crazy wiggle dance across the room. Martha’s had some wine, she’s loose and funny, very warm. She shakes my hand. I resist the urge to hug her. This is a big moment for me. And yet, as she speaks with us, I have one thought running through my head:
My friend Rich had a ticket to the reception in Martha’s honor. He managed to get me in, knowing that if he invited anyone else, I would set myself on fire.
We’re moments away from actually meeting her. I can’t tell if my shortness of breath is from nerves, or my suspicion that my feet are actually bleeding at this point.
And here we come to a helpful hint: If your shoes are so small that they’re causing you to limp, just accept the limp and go with it. If you attempt to overcompensate and walk normally, you will end up looking like you’re doing the Mashed Potato, which is fine if it’s 1963, or you’re partying at Little Richard’s house, but will do you no favors at a cocktail party for the Eva Peron of housekeeping.
Rich says she’s ready for us, and I do my crazy wiggle dance across the room. Martha’s had some wine, she’s loose and funny, very warm. She shakes my hand. I resist the urge to hug her. This is a big moment for me. And yet, as she speaks with us, I have one thought running through my head:
“AAARGH! MY FUCKING FEET! OH MY GOD!”
I certainly cannot remove my shoes, and I don’t want to walk away from Martha (when would I ever have this chance again?), but I’m freakin’ dying here. So, for lack of a better idea, I drop to my knees in front of her, kneeling on the floor. I do this as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, perhaps a quaint local custom no one mentioned. My relief is instantaneous. And as a testament to her class and unflappable nature, Martha continues the conversation without ever noting that one of us is now possibly preparing to do a little yoga. Rich takes his cue from Martha, keeping eye contact with her, I look up smiling at both, and we all pretend I’m not doing this. But then our audience with the Domestic Diva has ended, and I missed most of it worryin’ about my damn shoes.
Later, I’m barefoot at the bar, recounting the story for George and Nick as I nurse my bloody, blistered feet, when I’m interrupted by Nick’s phone. We groan in unison when he shows us the text message he’s received.
“R U IGNORING ME?”
“That’s number six for the day, boys,” says Nick. “And I haven’t responded once.”
“That poor man,” says George. “He should try to preserve a little dignity.”
“What am I going to do about this guy? He was okay, it just wasn’t a good fit. And now he’s creeping me out,” Nick says, genuinely distraught. Nick is much nicer than we are.
“Oh, hand me the phone,” I say, reaching. “I can put a stop to this. Driving men away is one of my marketable skills.”
Nick resists, still holding out hope that he can let this relentless suitor down gently. I wish I could show this guy my feet, because I’d have such a great visual aid for my little life lesson: If something doesn’t fit, do not try to force it. You’ll only put yourself through unnecessary pain and risk ruining something really great.
I doubt Nick’s suitor would see the paralell, but I plan to keep it in mind.
And that’s a Good Thing.
I certainly cannot remove my shoes, and I don’t want to walk away from Martha (when would I ever have this chance again?), but I’m freakin’ dying here. So, for lack of a better idea, I drop to my knees in front of her, kneeling on the floor. I do this as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, perhaps a quaint local custom no one mentioned. My relief is instantaneous. And as a testament to her class and unflappable nature, Martha continues the conversation without ever noting that one of us is now possibly preparing to do a little yoga. Rich takes his cue from Martha, keeping eye contact with her, I look up smiling at both, and we all pretend I’m not doing this. But then our audience with the Domestic Diva has ended, and I missed most of it worryin’ about my damn shoes.
Later, I’m barefoot at the bar, recounting the story for George and Nick as I nurse my bloody, blistered feet, when I’m interrupted by Nick’s phone. We groan in unison when he shows us the text message he’s received.
“R U IGNORING ME?”
“That’s number six for the day, boys,” says Nick. “And I haven’t responded once.”
“That poor man,” says George. “He should try to preserve a little dignity.”
“What am I going to do about this guy? He was okay, it just wasn’t a good fit. And now he’s creeping me out,” Nick says, genuinely distraught. Nick is much nicer than we are.
“Oh, hand me the phone,” I say, reaching. “I can put a stop to this. Driving men away is one of my marketable skills.”
Nick resists, still holding out hope that he can let this relentless suitor down gently. I wish I could show this guy my feet, because I’d have such a great visual aid for my little life lesson: If something doesn’t fit, do not try to force it. You’ll only put yourself through unnecessary pain and risk ruining something really great.
I doubt Nick’s suitor would see the paralell, but I plan to keep it in mind.
And that’s a Good Thing.
