Last Thursday, I woke up, worked out, showered and got dressed for the day. I had a meeting that afternoon, so I was wearing a dress. While finalizing my hair and makeup, I thought about what shoes would look good with my outfit and decided I would try my black boots. My black boots are about 10 years old, and the top comes to just below my knee. They are wonderfully broken in and marvelously comfortable.
However, after zipping them up, I decided that my beloved black boots were – sadly – the wrong choice for my dress. So, I unzipped the right one, slipped it off, and turned to remove the left one. But the zipper was stuck.
At first I didn’t panic. I gently tugged at the zipper in hopes of releasing whatever it was caught on. Then, I reached inside the boot and tried to pry the piece of leather that the zipper was stuck on out of the way. All to no avail. I was stuck.
It is important to mention that the boot incident occurred at 8:45 AM. It takes between 15 and 20 minutes for me to drive to work. So, at best, I was barely running on time. Normally, this wouldn’t have bothered me that much. The museum has flex time in place, and I had worked late the evening before. However, last Thursday I was scheduled to meet with my boss at 9:30 AM. And being stuck in my shoe was causing me to be later and later by the minute. Not to mention, trying to pry myself free of my boot was causing me to break a sweat on a day when I needed to look quasi professional.
After 10 minutes of pulling, tugging and cursing, my finger developed a blister and my thumb started to bleed. The boots were just fitted enough to my calf that pulling them off was also proving to be fruitless.
At 9 AM, I called my coworker and explained the situation. After she finally stopped laughing at me, she told me get in the car and drive to work. She’d help me get out of the boot once I arrived. This initially sounded like a plan. That is, until I tried one last time to wiggle my foot out of the boot, and managed to wedge my heal in a way that prohibited me from walking properly. Still, I tried to head back to my bedroom to gather up an extra pair of shoes (for once I escaped from the boot), and get on the road to work. On the way down the hall, though, I miss-stepped (compliments of no longer having my foot in the boot correctly) and heard a distinct ripping noise. The worn leather of my beloved boots was ripping away from the zipper where my heal was putting too much stress up near the ankle. I could now see my foot through a quarter sized hole. When I tried to use the extra space to my advantage, however, the rip got larger. Much larger. And that is when – figuring my 10 year old boots had lived a long, happy life – I tore the boot apart.
Never in my life have I been so happy to see my toes.
Not having time to mourn the loss of my favorite pair of boots, I quickly grabbed a black pair of high healed pumps and I dashed outside to my car. Once inside, I put the pumps on, and proceeded to drive to work. About 2/3rds of the way to the office, I moved my right foot from the gas to the break and felt the heal of my shoe crack. Yes, that’s right: CRACK! My second pair of shoes of the day had just broken. And now I was running late to a meeting and didn’t have the luxury of returning home for shoes number three.
Luckily, I had a pair of black flip flops in the backseat of my car, and I threw them on. My black pumps weren’t completely broken, but the heal on the right was definitely too unstable to use. I figured I’d get through my meeting with my boss in my flippies, and head home to change out shoes on my lunch break.
To get to my museum, I have to cross DART tracks. I was about to do so, when the arm came down and the blinking lights indicated that a train was on its way. So, I braked to wait. Sure enough, a DART train was soon crossing in front of me. However, the arm didn’t move after the trained had passed. At first, I wasn’t worried. I figured another train was coming from the opposite direction. Except I waited and waited and there was no train. The arm was just stuck in the down position. And – because I am exceptionally lucky – I was completely surrounded on all sides by other cars stuck in the same situation behind the broken DART arm. Turning around was not an option.
It took almost half an hour for the DART cops to arrive and start redirecting traffic. By then, I had already called the office to tell them that I was now stuck literally feet from the museum entrance.
At least, as my coworker pointed out, I was free from the confines of my own boot. Ha, ha…thanks.
Needless to say, last Thursday was a LONG day. Even before it ever really got started.
Even worse? I now have to go shoe shopping. Ug. Definitely an activity I avoid (hence the reason why most of my shoes are slowly falling apart at the seams).