I’ve worn heels twice since the foot surgery just over two years ago. The first time was at a cocktail party in one of the city’s tonier neighborhoods where I sat on the sofa with women twice my age and we all sipped very expensive champagne and complained about our feet hurting.
The second time was last night, at the opening party for a new restaurant in Hollywood, but this time, there was no available seating and most of the other attendees were half my age.
So I stood, smiling on the outside but inwardly cursing my footwear decision. Finally, I managed to score an ass-sized spot on a rickety table which I’m surprised didn’t collapse from the combined weight of me, my heels, several giant handbags, and a large raft of party flotsam.
The wait staff passed around plates of snacks – some delicious, some not (ahi tuna sliders on spongy white buns? Who thought that was a good idea?).
And teeny tiny drinks.
I mean really tiny. Like a sip tiny. Like half a sip tiny. Like a drink tease tiny.
Plus, the tiny glasses were plastic and will end up in a landfill! Remember, recycling is just letting the environment think it’s winning.
Note to club owners: Once the press corps start to sober up, things get ugly fast. Pass full-sized drinks, and keep ’em coming. Your reviews will improve. I promise.
The runaway hit of the night was a vodka, cucumber and dill cocktail. I was double fisting the teeny glasses, and would have actually purchased one had there not been a cluster fuck of biblical proportions around the bar.
After a while, the pain in my feet got too bad and I said my good nights (and thank yous), then hobbled to the car.
Had I not been in Hollywood nightclub central, I’d have taken my shoes off and walked barefoot, but after all I do know what’s on that pavement.
Oh, and the wrist still hurts, but as long as I don’t use the mouse it’s not so bad.