A Long Strange Trip In Killer Shoes
When presenting to large groups, it is imperative that a lady bedeck herself in the proper footwear. Heels not too high, because falling over in front of said large group could expose her naughty bits to strangers. Heels not too low, because said lady would like to create an enviable line of leg for her bored-and-sleeping group.
Just in case she is not engaging enough on her own merit.
I am NOT engaging enough on my own merit, Dear Reader. I need all kinds of help.
I wore a very powerful pair of shoes to speak to District 7770 Rotarians on Friday. Shoes I bought in Paris. In 2003. Steps from the Palais Garnier. Of Spanish origin. All that European hogwash should’ve endowed me with enough grace and decorum for umpteen public speaking opportunities.
Or at least two.
But, alas, I am American. And I am clumsy. And I wore pointy Spanish/French shoes. And there were wires running along the floor. These wires were orange, and I should’ve seen them.
I DID see them, as a matter of fact.
But, the shoes.
Pointy toes. European frou-frou. Unfit for gawky American damsels.
I wore them anyway. Because I am a stupid American.
And I tripped. Multiple times. Over said wires.
I did not reveal my absent unmentionables to the poor, helpless Rotarians. I never fell that far.
But, I came close.