6 July 2009
11:45 a.m.
Sister-girlfriend, my feet are killing me. The shoes
that go with my important meeting outfit pinch the hell out of my
little piggies. All morning I've been trying to spin my physical
discomfort into something useful and motivating. Telling myself that
the pinch is there to remind me of the pinch I'll feel as an unemployed
person should I fail to nail this presentation. Even though I have a
closet full of beautiful shoes, there is something about this pair of
Jimmy Choos that makes them central to my power outfit. Maybe the fact
that they inflict pain IS the magic ingredient. Like, I'm stoically
rising above excruciating physical pain in order to do my job, which
gives me a certain Angelina Jolie in Mr. and Mrs. Smith quality (stop
laughing, a girl can dream).
Anyway, every time I wear them I curse the entire Choo organization. I
mean seriously guys—why are your shoes so much ouchier than Manolo
and Lou? I can only conclude that it is completely intentional, for the
reasons I have outlined above. More than anything, I'm wishing for the presentation to be over so I can slip into the Havaianas that I keep under my desk. Ali
and I are planning to sneak out afterward and share a clandestine
"celebration salad" in Central Park, provided of course, that
everything goes well. Should I crash and burn, the plan will remain
largely intact, the salad simply being renamed the lunch of doom.
