Oh my aching balls
The balls of my feet, that is. And the glorious ball that I went to which left them in so much pain...
Every year, my college throws a fabulous soiree known as "Fireball" - so named because once way back in the 1800's, half the building burned the night of the Valentine dance, due to someone breaking an oil lamp in the hall. Well, there were no pyrotechnics last night, but there were gorgeous, sumptuously decorated rooms all over the college, each depicting one of the Seven Deadly Sins as this year's theme. After drinking myself dizzy, stuffing my face with food, dancing the night away and lounging languidly about (there was even a complementary massage! I only wish it had been a foot massage...), I am certainly hell bound. Of course, the greatest sin of the night had to be the sexpot shoes I was wearing. Hell, they were hot, and hell! they hurt.
Ah but we must suffer to be beautiful. And I felt like a princess, so in the twisted world of feminine vanity, it was all worthwhile. Yet the question remains... I fully intended, foolishly enough, to do a short run today. Do I go through with it? My feet are the only part of me that are hungover - but they're just a little bit of an important part when it comes to going for a run. So I must decide which is the more sensible course of action. Scratch that - I'm never that sensible anyway. Desireable, then - is it more desireable to be slothful, or proud?
What's a girl to do?
Update: Screwed my courage or whatever the saying is, and went for the run like I knew I should. Now I'm doubly happy: I ran, it felt great, it was short (4k) but fast (9:57 pace - under 10:00, yay!) - and it actually made my feet feel a lot better than they did before! Must be the running shoes. Why oh why can't fancy shoes feel as good as my beautiful Nikes?
Every year, my college throws a fabulous soiree known as "Fireball" - so named because once way back in the 1800's, half the building burned the night of the Valentine dance, due to someone breaking an oil lamp in the hall. Well, there were no pyrotechnics last night, but there were gorgeous, sumptuously decorated rooms all over the college, each depicting one of the Seven Deadly Sins as this year's theme. After drinking myself dizzy, stuffing my face with food, dancing the night away and lounging languidly about (there was even a complementary massage! I only wish it had been a foot massage...), I am certainly hell bound. Of course, the greatest sin of the night had to be the sexpot shoes I was wearing. Hell, they were hot, and hell! they hurt.
Ah but we must suffer to be beautiful. And I felt like a princess, so in the twisted world of feminine vanity, it was all worthwhile. Yet the question remains... I fully intended, foolishly enough, to do a short run today. Do I go through with it? My feet are the only part of me that are hungover - but they're just a little bit of an important part when it comes to going for a run. So I must decide which is the more sensible course of action. Scratch that - I'm never that sensible anyway. Desireable, then - is it more desireable to be slothful, or proud?
What's a girl to do?
Update: Screwed my courage or whatever the saying is, and went for the run like I knew I should. Now I'm doubly happy: I ran, it felt great, it was short (4k) but fast (9:57 pace - under 10:00, yay!) - and it actually made my feet feel a lot better than they did before! Must be the running shoes. Why oh why can't fancy shoes feel as good as my beautiful Nikes?
posted by Liv @ 3:05 p.m.
2 Comments:
At 1:11 a.m.,
Iron Jayhawk said…
Wow! Those shoes are hott!! I can't wear anything with more than a 1" heel. I have foot envy!
At 11:27 a.m.,
psbowe said…
I luv the shoes too!
Post a Comment
<< Home