As DD was off at a pizza making birthday party, DH and I took the boys to Mall of Emirates (MOE). We wandered about, looking for bits and pieces that we had promised/bribed earlier in the week. As we passed Debenhams, it was impossible for me to ignore the ‘50% off’ sign splattered across the store’s expertly polished windows. DH sensed the nail polish red sale banner was speaking to me and suggested he take the boys for lunch so as to give me a chance to rummage through ‘end of season (and sometimes one really does have to wonder if the Dubai ‘season’ is from the last century) ‘ racks which would be about as likely to bear fruit as the loins of a grizzled 99 year old. DH thought his credit card was safe!
Well, it turns out my fat feet ensured his card was safer than I would have liked!
I thought I was a 38 European, a 5 UK shoe size. No idea what that is in US….on those sizes it’s trial by error. Correction, I was a 38 European, 5 UK. Then I had babies. 3 of them. Then I moved to Dubai where flip flops/Birkenstocks/Bartulas are par for the course. Yes, they are super-comfy but I do feel they are responsible for the unconscious widening of my already broad feet. The mere thought of daylight and sunshine, and more importantly space, from the constricted, toe-crunching width of my ridiculously high working heels, has my toes celebrating a freedom pah-tay to thwart any future purchase of fab shoes!
There were so many beautiful shoes…So. Many. Beautiful. Shoes, I didn’t know where to start! Images of work attire, enhanced by ‘F-off’ (fancy off) heels flit through my overexcited mind. I didn’t care what outfit I was planning on wearing, it was all about the shoes.
But, my feet did not agree. As I placed the ‘right’ shoe of what I thought was the perfect pair, on the floor in front of me, I swear I saw my feet inflate to resemble sweaty, clown-like feet. My toes recoiled in sheer horror at the mere thought of being mercilessly forced into what looked like Madonna’s 1990’s conical bra (for a foot, that is!). My toes resisted with the force of a baby being woken from the sweetest of slumbers. My ‘foot width’ formed a united front with my toes and conspired against me. But this did not deter me.
I wiggled, I shoved, I squeezed my reluctant trainer-sweaty feet into the delicate, classy, sexy heels I wanted to wear. Of the 6 ‘to die for’ pairs, I came away with 2, and if I am honest with my feet….only one of them actually fits without inflicting major podiatric damage! Damn you ‘aging’, damn you humid, sticky climate, damn you shoemakers who think a half size is for freaks!