"No. Last time I did that, it lasted all day. Makes me nauseous. I think you can skip that bit Doc."
"I really would prefer it if you'd let me dilate you."
"I don't wanna I don't wanna I don't wanna."
"Please, I promise you, it'll be fine."
"Oh, all right then, I suppose."
The upshot of this conversation is I spend the rest of the day wearing Roy Orbison shades, staggering around like a drunk, and tripping over my shoes which look like they're in clown sizes. I'll complain about it for the rest of the day, to which everybody helpfully reminds me, 'Well, you could have refused, couldn't you". No. That's the problem. I couldn't. OK, I admit it, I'm a bit of a pushover, especially when it comes to ladies. One thing I should have learned by now, though, is to never underestimate the willpower of a strong-minded woman, and its obvious corollary. Never enter a bet with one. But of course, that's precisely what I did.
An upbeat and funny friend of mine on Twitter (and indeed, a guest poster here) is expecting her first child, and handling the trials and tribulations of the whole business with a more than liberal dose of humor. Strange thing how stream-of-consciousness discussions begin, but it started with an exchange of blog comments. "Awww, bless her", I start thinking, overcome with pathos. The idea of anyone insistent on sticking to their skinny jeans and heels as long as possible through pregnancy - definitely a first time mom. I remember what it was like the last time, 12 years ago, when The Boy was on his way; having to walk mom-to-be up and down the house constantly, while helicopters hovered overhead and radioed back to Sea World that Free Willy had escaped. Heels? Yup. Sure. Whatever. And one thing I can be trusted on is to open my mouth. "If you make it to 28 weeks, I'll be in awe of your superhuman powers," I tweeted. Somehow, between there and now, that escalated from a mere observation to a bet. The game's afoot.
And, of course, I lost. And, since a bet's not a bet unless you've got something to lose, what would my forfeit be? Surely, the punishment should fit the crime. There's only one logical suggestion. I should put on a pair of heels.
This does, of course, raise a few issues - perhaps, surprisingly, not the issues that immediately spring to most people's minds. I refuse to take myself too seriously. I'll go out of my way to do things just to raise a smile, or in this case, hopefully, a laugh. And, no, I'm certainly not insecure - a joke like this is in no way a challenge to my sexuality, little boys have been marching up and down the hallway in their mom's slingbacks since the dawn of time - so, what the heck? Why not? It's not like I'll be wearing them all day at work. Could be fun, and, who knows, I might even learn a bit of empathy for some women I see who are obviously in discomfort from these things. Besides, I've supposedly got a decent pair of legs. Most friends of mine my age have things that I can only equate with hairy milk bottles. Anyway, Wikipedia tells me that high heels being just for women isn't necessarily the case. They were practical for Mongolian horsemen and Egyptian butchers. (Seriously, I'm not making this up). Dance shoes such as Cuban heels aren't considered effeminate, are they? Of course, that would be cheating on the bet, wouldn't it?
The only issues that come into play are purely logistical. How do I get a pair that fit? My daughters don't wear them, and even if they did, my plates of meat are far too big. I'm a ten and a half (US) wide fitting in a tennis shoe. It's not that they don't make heels in that size - far from it - but it would be nice if they were fashionable. And, despite the fact that this is something that will be over and done with in a few seconds, it would be nice if they actually fit. I had no idea what would happen if I were to walk into Wal-Mart and start trying on shoes in the shoe aisle. I think I'll draw the line there. Other plots ensued. I could order them online, perhaps. (There's a surprisingly large amount of size 11's up there. I'm figuring add half a size for comfort to even stand a chance of getting my lithe and lissom feet in them). Perhaps I could head out on the razz and see if I can find myself a lady with feet that size, explain my predicament, and that I'm interested in borrowing her shoes. Or maybe not. I honestly don't look at feet all that much when I'm out.
At this point, I was accused of stalling. The very thought! Two weeks have passed as I tried to think my way out of this acquisition problem (or, perhaps, hoping that people would forget?). Of course, nobody does forget something like this - and I'm definitely not going to be accused of welching on a bet. By hook or by crook, I was going to have to get me a pair, get this photo taken, and be done with it. Sunday seemed a good night to go ahead and do it - it had been a thoroughly humorless weekend, and I fancied a laugh. Sunday. In blue velvet, god-fearing America. In Wal-Mart. It took a skinful of Newcastle Brown for me to do it, but I went for it anyway. Not much of a selection; it is, after all, August, and the Christmas trees are already out in lawn and garden - the summer fashions just aren't out there any more - but their sizes go right up to 11. Good. Let's get this over and done with. I gingerly picked a right shoe from three pairs, sat down on the little shoe-trying-on chair, looked both ways to make sure the coast was clear, and, one by one, this ugly sister tried to see if Cindy's shoes would fit.
Not even close. The best I could get had my heel hanging out the back of the shoe by an inch or two - the rest, I couldn't even get my toes into. How was I to know that male and female shoe sizes are apparently so vastly different? Apparently, what I need is about a size 13, maybe even a 14, and where the heck am I going to find them? Does Eddie Izzard have this trouble?
To Be Continued!
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