Ouch, Yawn

Last updated on: October 10, 2016 at 11:53 am by Calah Alexander

Ouch, Yawn 2016-10-10T11:53:56-04:00 Calah Alexander

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Sorry I haven’t posted in a few days. I have two very good reasons for this, and for the fact that this post is probably going to be slightly incoherent and significantly grammatically flawed.

First, on Valentine’s Day, I did the unthinkable. I did the thing that most of you do all the time, without really paying much attention, but which I’ve only done three times in my married life and have deeply regretted almost immediately.

And no, I’m not talking about sex, but it’s funny that that paragraph came out that way. Sleep-deprivation+Freudian slips=scandalous blog posts.

Here’s what happened. I decided to go the full nine yards for the Ogre this year. In the two years that we’ve celebrated Valentine’s Day, he’s always done something for me…bringing flowers, chocolate, dinner, taking the kids, etc. This year I wanted to do something for him. So I cleaned the house top-to-bottom, re-organized and straightened his study (read: got all my crap out, picked up books from floor which naughty children throw while Mommy pretends not to see and goes on typing, vacuumed), made chocolate covered strawberries, creamed spinach, filet au poivre, twice-baked potatoes, and remembered to decant the wine. And just to top things off, I took a shower, put on makeup, did my hair, and put on the dress that most successfully hides my spectacular Mommy non-figure and yet is still low-cut enough to make me feel like I’m not actually wearing a trash bag (don’t be alarmed, I wear a cami on underneath it when I wear it out).

And then, in a fit of insanity, I decided it was quite time for me to grow up and stop being such a teenager about things like shoes. So I put on heels.

High heels. Adorable heels. Gorgeous black peeptoe pumps that are just the right height to show off the fact that my legs are the one part of my body that hasn’t become a shapeless, jiggly mass in the wake of it’s revolving door of tiny tenants.

I’ve only worn these particular heels twice in the entire time I’ve owned them, despite the fact that they are easily the cutest shoes I’ve ever owned. The first time was to one of my in-laws big family dinners, where the wine flows as freely as the moral correction, and I partook of so much said wine (with a generous side helping of moral correction) that I didn’t notice the agony my feet were in because, quite frankly, I couldn’t feel them.

The second time, not too long afterward, I thought it would be a smashing idea to wear those same shoes to the Christmas Eve Vigil. This is when we lived in Texas, across the street from UD, and we just walked across the street to the chapel. A mere quarter-mile walk over some tricky patches of ice, but by the time we got there I was near tears. Receiving communion that night was a sort of surreal experience in sharing of Christ’s suffering, because each step I took toward the Eucharist was searing agony.

Since then, these shoes have gone to the back of my closet. The thing is, I pretty much have to wear heels when I dress up. I’m really short and not really thin, so flats just don’t work. But since my two-year-old daughter is more graceful in heels than I am, I stick with kitten heels, preferably of the dressy flip-flop variety. During winter, I’ll wear boots with heels, but that’s okay because my feet don’t flop around inside those.

But for some reason, on Monday night, I decided that it was high time to stop all this nonsense and be a lady. A grown-up lady, in heels. In the kitchen. Cooking. In heels.

What I wanted to look like

That lasted all of about twenty minutes. Because, well, my feet hurt! But worst of all was the fact that the strange, lolling gait I have to adopt in order to not fall all over myself in heels was doubling the time it usually takes me to get ingredients down, spoons out, pans switched, tossed and stirred. And in my kitchen, the food comes first. Nothing, but nothing, will come between me and a perfectly cooked filet mignon with brandy cream sauce. Especially not shoes from hell.

What I actually looked like…no heels and with the wine bottle pointed straight at my mouth instead of the pan

But I kind of felt like a failure after that. It felt so nice to be ladylike and dressy, yet it hurt so badly. How do you girls do it? I read Betty Beguiles and just marvel…how can she keep tabs on all this fashion stuff? How does she have the time? Who taught her to walk in heels? Does it hurt? How does she know if something looks good without asking everyone around her, including the cat? I can match exactly two things: jeans with t-shirts. Or sweatshirts, depending on the season, so that’s three things. And I live my life in flip-flops and adidas.

I really do think it’s time for me to grow up and put on a skirt and some heels once a month or so, but…ouch. Every pair of heels I’ve put on either slip at the heels or cramp my toes together so tightly at the end that I wish I was dead. Advice? Tips? Help me be a real girl!

So there’s that. I was actually pretty depressed about my utter failure to be the June Cleaver-ish vision of domesticity that I had envisioned for the evening, so to make myself feel better I drank too much wine and picked a fight with the Ogre. Maturity, thy name is Calah.

But my depression lasted all day on Tuesday, and I just couldn’t work up the humility to write a post about my super-classy behavior. Then last night my darling, adorable son decided that sleeping is something that he doesn’t really feel like doing anymore. Since the Ogre had to teach today I made him go to bed and stayed up all night long with the little man, who alternated sleeping on my shoulder with struggling to let out gross-smelling boy farts.

The good news: I got caught up on Fringe, House and Chuck. Fringe is quickly surpassing Supernatural and Veronica Mars as my favorite of favorite TV shows ever.

The bad news: I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since I was studying for comps in 2007, and well…ugh. I’m not as young as I once was, and since I didn’t want to add to my poor little guy’s obvious distress by drinking coffee, I drank water. Water. During an all-nighter. My head, it aches.

I tried to catch a nap with the kids today but Liam is still on a sleep-strike. I’m not really sure what’s happening since he’s obviously tired, but I think it’s a tummy ache coupled with teeth struggling to make their appearance. Regardless, he’s miserable, the girls have been left almost entirely to their own devices all day, and I sort of feel like I’m dreaming right now. Which is a nice change from four hours ago, when I felt like the guy from π.

Sorry if I just brought up repressed memories of this movie for anyone.

So that’s been my week so far. I’m really hoping for an improvement in little man’s sleeping tonight so that tomorrow I can have a more coherent and hopefully more interesting post for you to read. I hope the rest of you had a happy Valentine’s Day!

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