Are cute shoes worth the blisters?

I love shoes. I particularly love cute shoes. But, as most women know, cuteness often comes at the price of comfort. I have one pair in particular that no matter how many times I wear, I get blisters on my heels. And even though they always cause me pain, I can't bring myself to get rid of them because they're . . . well . . . cute.

I decided to wear them today and as a preventative measure I decided to arm myself with Band Aids before I left the house, knowing that blisters were in my future. But, alas, I was out. Band Aids aren't one of those things I ever really think to buy. They're just kind of there when I need them. Or not, as in this case.

I knew Grandpa had some Band Aids on his dresser, so I decided to raid his supply. But when I got to his box I groaned with frustration. He didn't have normal Band Aids. He had a box of those little round ones that they put on your finger after they prick it and take blood at the doctor's office. Seriously, for what other life event would you possibly need those quarter-sized bandages?!?! I mean, the actual bandage part is less than a quarter of an inch in diameter! What sort of wound could these actually cover?? And why would you need 50 of them? The only reason that there are so many of them in the package is because they're so dang small.

I proceeded on to work, Band Aid-less. Sure enough I wasn't halfway across the parking lot walking into work before I started to feel the uncomfortable rubbing on my heels. I ignored it. Why? Because I secretly hoped that this time my feet would have built up enough callouses to combat the shoes. However, each step was more uncomfortable than the last. By the time I got to my desk, I was relieved to take them off.

I briefly considered going to the company's convenience store to buy a box of Band Aids, but decided not to. I did that once before (probably when I was wearing the same shoes) and the box cost me a small fortune. That's the thing about the convenience store at work -- they know they've got you. There's nowhere else to go. When you need Band Aids, you need Band Aids, and they're going to make you pay handsomely. It's a really sick and twisted take on supply and demand.

Luckily I was able to bum a Band Aid off a friend which made walking for the rest of the day a little more bearable. However, as I spent the afternoon sitting at my desk, I decided to take my shoes off. When I went to put them back on at the end of the day to leave, it was excruciating. You know how it is - you got blisters from the shoes, they popped, leaving tender, nerve-exposed skin beneath and now you're rubbing them in the same darn spot. It hurt. So I did what any self-respecting professional would do. I put my shoes in my lunch bag and walked out of the office in my bare feet.

As I walked out, feeling extremely paranoid and foolish, I started obsessing over other people's footwear. All I could do was look at every one's shoes. Did they realize that I didn't have shoes on? Would they think I'm nuts? Okay, maybe I am nuts, but still, do other people look at shoes? Why do I care about cute shoes? I've never noticed much about other people's shoes, so why would they notice mine, even if they are cute? Will they revoke my "adult license" if they catch me barefoot at my place of employment? I was completely freaked out the whole way through the building. When I got to the security desk, I was relieved to realize that they couldn't see my feet from behind the desk. I'm not sure if I thought they'd kick me out or what, but I was glad to get out of the building.

Now I had to walk across the parking lot. No biggie, I thought. It was strange feeling the black top under my feet. You could tell which parking spots had been in the sun for awhile and which ones had had cars parked in them by the amount of heat they gave off. About half-way to my car my feet were starting to feel a little tender and I wondered to myself how on Earth did I manage to run around barefoot in the street when I was a kid? I must have had leather for soles.

I finally got to the car and headed home. I even had to stop for gas and fill the tank in my bare feet. Spilled oil, gas and anti-freeze don't exactly appeal to me as moisturizers. When I got to Grandpa's, I sat down and looked at my dirty, beat up feet. They're not pretty folks. And they're pretty tender when I walk around. Tragically this means I won't be working out tonight.

Maybe I'll give the shoes one more chance, though. They are cute after all.