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Also this issue: The Style Issue A New
Sensation Good Moves Foot for Thought Henri David Too Pretty, Baby? Martha Chamberlain Mason Warner |
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April 17-23, 2003
cover story
One writer’s tale of high-heeled woe.
p>Pride goeth before a fall, but not as often as platform sandals. My most spectacular swoon occurred on Pine Street, whilst striding along thinking I was all that following a business meeting. As I passed under scaffolding, I fell off my platforms with the speed and grace of a wildebeest brought down by a hyena, my ankle twisting beneath me as I body-slammed the sidewalk.Sure, a few people offered assistance, after they were able to compose themselves, stand upright and suppress their infernal laughter. Between barely contained guffaws, the workmen above called down helpful comments, most focusing on the quantity of blood dripping from my foot and oozing from my skinned knees.
"Looks like ya broke yer shoe, hon!" one bellowed.
Broken strapped, it lay forlornly on the sidewalk as I staggered to my feet, er, foot.
A few weeks later, I was still hobbling on the worst sprained ankle of my life, and trust me, I've had a few. The bruises faded, the cut healed and the site of my tetanus shot eventually stopped throbbing. But still I brooded. Regardless of what the shoemaker said, there had to be a way to repair one of the most comfortable platform sandals I'd ever owned.
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