Not Mama's Little Girl, Anymore

Seven

Like most young career women out in the world, I find the dating environment to be filled with land mines. About the time you think you've found a "keeper," the guy does something so inexcusable a girl has no other choice but to cut bait and start over. I was certain the right guy for me was out there somewhere, and I only needed to find him.

I have a date with my current beau, who coincidentally is named Beau. LOL! I met him at a party, and he lavished me with attention. Tonight, we are meeting friends at a popular club. My footsteps are light, and I dance across my room as I get ready for my date. I spin around in front of the mirror admiring my outfit. Perfection!

I wave good-bye to Claudia as she leaves for the club. Beau told me he'd pick me up at the apartment. It will be so nice walking in on his arm — the envy of all of the women present. When the agreed upon time of arrival passes, I find myself getting frustrated by the fact that he hasn't shown up for our date. I glance at my cell. I didn't miss a call, and there aren't any new messages on my phone. I wonder what time it is now. Oh, it has only been a few minutes since I last checked.

I walk across the living room with mincing steps. The second-hand Prada stilettos adorning my feet are a half size too small. In a magazine I read somewhere, it said that if you walked around in the shoes, they'd stretch. I had dutifully put them on early so I could break them in. I wasn't about to give up on my special find -- for crying out loud, I spent a week's salary on them. Someone famous had once said that 'the price of style was comfort' or something like that. It might have been in the same Cosmo article I found the shoe stretching advice.

Claudia told me to return the shoes reminding me about the recent debacle when I forced myself into my "lucky jeans". Claudia didn't understand — the woman looks great in everything. Her impeccable taste and style seem effortless. But I need the confidence a cute outfit or a dynamite pair of shoes gives me.

Why hadn't he called yet? I inspect my phone making sure the ringer's on and not set on silent. I tromp across the floor, noting my footsteps begin to sound heavier as the Prada heels become more uncomfortable. The way the back of my heel feels, I'm fairly certain I have a blister forming.

Mind over matter. Style over comfort. I am not going to change my shoes.

Still no call. I'm not waiting all night for him. I come to the conclusion that Beau stood me up. Jerk! My friends were already partying at the club by this time. I grab my purse and phone. Pouting my lips at my reflection, I give my image an air kiss. Ready to P-A-R-T-Y!

Down on the street, I look for a yellow cab. Rain showers earlier in the evening meant everyone is looking for a taxi right now, just in case the rain returns. As I stand curbside, a familiar yellow vehicle approaches. My hopes rise until I notice it's off duty. A wave of water surges from the street splashing towards me as the sedan flies past. My Prada's are soaked. Several obscene suggestions spew from my mouth as I shake a fist at the quickly disappearing cab.

No worries, I'll walk. The club is only about seven blocks away. Just a short hike, it's a piece of cake!

After the first block, a light rain falls as the skies open up once again. As I limp along, I promise myself the club is just a bit further. In block number two, my stride shortens as fiery pain accompanies each step I take. In block numero treis, I stumble and scrape up the palms of my hands and my knees when my heel catches in a grate. Torturous block four will always be remembered as the block where a heel broke off from one of my shoes. My lopsided gait encourages passersby to point and laugh.

"What's so funny? Can't you see I'm suffering here?" Tears blur my vision. Despondent, I remove my destroyed designer shoes carrying them and the broken heel in one hand while I clutch my purse in the other. Block 5 provides me with a humbling experience as I march on, ignoring my aching, blistered bare feet and bloody knees and hands. My perfect makeup runs in black lines down my face which is framed by the snarled hair hanging in wet clumps around it. And no one better dare say anything about my dress.

On block six, my tardy beau, Beau, walks towards me.

"Where have you been, Natalie? I've been waiting forever." My face is burning, and my hands shake with anger.

"Why don't you take a hike!" I scream at him as my pair of second-hand, damaged Prada stilettos sails through the air before slamming into my shocked date's head. I don't wait for an apology as I storm away on bare feet. Style over comfort -- never again!

Needless to say, Beau and I are no longer an item.