Standing at the petite height of 5’-3”—that’s 160 cm for any metric-loving Canadians out there—I’ve worn my fair share of high-heels over the years. For the most part, any mishaps I’ve experienced while strutting around in them have been minor: shoe-icidal blisters resulting from a poor fit; an ankle twist caused by an uneven sidewalk; pole-up-my-butt-posture triggered by too many hours on the tips of my toes.
One time though, I experienced a stiletto-wearing incident that easily ranks as major … that went from mortifying to bizarre to happy all in a matter of seconds.
The setting was Toronto, Canada, a few years back while I was on an interior design business trip with a client. My sister Bev—who lives in Toronto—worked, at the time, at Citytv, which played host to the Toronto International Film Festival’s SCHMOOZE PARTY, a gala event that took place annually at the uber-cool CHUM-CITY building on Queen Street West. Because Bev was going to be tied up with TIFF festivities for the entire time I was in town, she suggested I attend the SCHMOOZE so we could hang out, and people-watch, and cocktail-consume. All the best sisterly stuff.
Disregarding the fact that I was undoubtedly going to be one-of-those-things-that-doesn’t-belong-here, I said, “Okay, I’ll see you there around ten, just as soon my dinner meeting wraps up.”
"Be forewarned," she added, "You'll spend the evening on your feet."
"I'm still wearing my heels," I replied … because what could possibly go wrong if I did, right?
It was after eleven by the time I finally slipped away from dinner. Struggling to flag a taxi because TIFF goers had evidently occupied every last vehicle-for-hire, I decided to sprint the entirety of eight blocks despite the fact that I was wearing not-made-for-sprinting shoes. Once at the CHUM-CITY building, I met up with a fellow schmoozer/relative named Jill, with whom I became a teeny-tiny fish in a sea of many movie-star-loving fans. Uncertain on how to proceed through the thick of things, I rang my sister and said, “How are we supposed to find you in this madness?”
“Your names are on the guest list,” she replied, “so just come to the red carpet starting point, check in, walk the carpet, and you’ll find me standing at the building entrance.”
Intimidated by the sight of the press/paparazzi-lined thoroughfare, I responded, “Is that the only option?”
“It is unless you can sprout wings,” she retorted … and then laugh-snorted.
[Okay … she didn't really laugh-snort, but she does sometimes when she thinks she's funny.]
In response to my hesitant moan, she added, “Just walk that carpet like you own it and you’ll be fine." A task easier said than done because, just as I took my first step onto the excessively-lit, crimson-colored synthetic fibers, one of the heels of my stylin’ shoes just snapped right off.
Like a tiny tree branch beset with a penguin, I tell you.
[Side note: I'm using penguin as an example because fully-grown ones weighs about a hundred pounds and so do I.]
- Photo Credit: mischiefshoes.co.nz
As my eyes boing’d out of my head and my body recovered from a stumble, I called my sister and exasperatedly explained my you-won’t-believe-what-just-happened predicament.
Laughing (sans any snorts), she replied, “Just stay where you are, I’ve got the situation covered.”
Mere moments later, and seemingly out of nowhere, a headset-wearing young CHUM-CITY intern arrived at my side, replaced my broken shoes with unbroken shoes, gave Jill and me a gentle shove, and then, like a sprite, just vanished into the crowd.
Afterward, as I carefully made my way along the hundred-foot journey (without a single misstep BTW), I was quick to observe that the cameras were aimed only at the dolled-up celebrities. Which begs the question: would anyone have even noticed if I'd strutted that red carpet like a peg-legged pirate? I bet not.
What’s your most memorable/frightening/bizarre/horrific shoe-wearing moment?
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