The dangers of high heels (cute, hot or otherwise) have always been foretold to me: Achilles problems, bad backs, slips, falls, unforgiving grate encounters and other perilous possibilities have never been on short supply. (Thanks mom.) I was not, however, prepared for the heel-wielding destruction of a couple weeks ago.
Waiting for my evening Monday Step class to begin at the High Street
GoodLife gym, I overheard the faint and crackly voice over the gym loudspeaker mumbling something about a blue Santa Fe. Not recognizing the license plate (yes, I subscribe to all the female stereotypes pertaining to cars), I thought I should go see about the possibility of said parked SUV being mine.
Mine it was, although the back end was sadly (and horrifically) hanging by a thread. In front of it stood a patronizingly large white SUV, a crumpled heap where I assumed the front end used to be.
As I stood there with friends Phil, Kathryn and Michelle, the car’s driver blurted apology after apology amidst my shock (and her husband’s disapproving glare).
The reason for such vehicular carnage? Apparently, the heel of her boot got stuck in the evil divots of her floor mats. Instead of gliding into the spot behind me (and also panting through Step Class), her foot remained stuck on the gas, forcing her to accelerate into my (mostly) blemish-free back end.
While part of me felt the building frustration of things yet to come (police reports, insurance companies, rental cars, etc.), I sympathized with her situation. With fashion comes risk. And while that risk more often than not is that of haunting ridicule, serious damage can be done in the name of sexy leather knee-highs.