The "Shoe" Must Go On! (Or SJP I'll Never Be!)

Rumor has it that yet a third installment of the popular Sex & The City movie series is in the works. If that's true, no doubt the spotlight will shine on Sarah Jessica Parker's (hereinafter known as SJP) extensive wardrobe of Mahnolos, Weitzmans and Choos..........which reminds me of an incident when Mother Nature cruelly reminded me that I ain't 35 anymore!

Proving once again that fat and fashion don't mix, my efforts at appearing at least 25 pounds taller by donning a pair of uber-hot five-inch-heeled metallic bronze stilettos left me very nearly lame and only a hundred bucks lighter before everything was said and done. Yes, this escapade took me from stilettos to stability in a flash - and at a pretty (painful) price!

It was the first week of 2007.  This found the whole Hughey family in New Orleans and I was a blissfully happy camper for many reasons, because
a) I had just bid 2006 - my own personal version of Queen Elizabeth's "annus horribilus" - good riddance
b) I was in my favorite city on the planet earth with my three favorite men (Hubby and our two boys) for a deliciously long, rare stretch of family time, and
c) we were there to celebrate the wedding week of our "Baby Girl," Aynsley Fein and her dashing fiance, Jason LeBlanc and all its associated fun and festivity.

Our arrival coincided with the Sugar Bowl's triumphant return to the Big Easy for the first time since The Storm (aka Katrina) and the atmosphere was super-charged and jubilant. Coincidentally, LSU just happened to be one of the competing teams, which turned the whole thing into a "homecoming" of sorts and only added to the fun. Never mind that our son and our money had gone to the University of Tennessee, I enthusiastically donned my purple and gold Mid-City Lanes Rock & Bowl(ing) shirt and waded into the mob on Bourbon Street yelling "Geaux Tigers" as loudly as anyone else. Must've worked because the boys from Baton Rouge blew that Notre Dame yankee bunch back to South Bend to the tune of 41-14. What a great way to kick off a week of celebration!

Game won, we turned our attention to the serious business of the wedding revelry, which included the bridesmaids luncheon (for me), the rehearsal dinner (for the entire family), the wedding in St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square and a second-line parade to the gala reception at The Court of Two Sisters afterward. With that many social engagements, not to mention all our usual running around, I could have used an old-fashioned steamer trunk to accommodate all the clothes I hauled from home, complicated by the fact that I hadn't quite decided what to wear to the wedding.

Still coping with the consequences of a seriously ridiculous weight gain in 2006 (see my blog post, Puttin' On The Spanxx), I had managed to piece together all the necessary ensembles and was actually quite happy with what I had chosen to wear to the bridesmaid's luncheon at Arnaud's. Not wanting Baby Girl's and her mama, Mary's, friends to think they had imported Elly Mae from the backwoods, I put extra effort into looking my best. I was particularly proud of the killer high-heeled copper metallic pumps I had scored one heck of a bargain on just the week prior. They were the PERFECT way to accessorize my black pants and black & copper metallic jacket. Little did I realize when I paid next-to-nothing for them that "killer" would be the operative word when I tried to walk in them. Yes, the five-inch heels that made them so sharp-looking were significantly higher than I was used to wearing and yes, I had tried them on and yes, they fit. But in my haste, I hadn't bothered to actually stroll around the store in them. And that oversight would wind up costing me big-time.

The morning of the luncheon, I was up early. While I worked on getting ready, my guys were busily planning their own adventure, which meant they were headed to their favorite oyster dive bar out west of Metarie to throw back a few dozen on the half-shell while enjoying some serious football bowl action. Since Arnaud's was scarcely three blocks from our beloved Hotel St. Marie, I opted to walk. That was my second mistake.

Anybody familiar with The French Quarter knows the sidewalks in this vintage section of town aren't always the easiest to navigate -with or without excess beverage consumption. And, I'll readily admit it wasn't my usual habit to teeter around these cobbled, historic streets in stilettos, preferring to leave that to the "girls" who work at certain Bourbon Street establishments.

I made it across the hotel courtyard, through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk before I realized I was in some more serious trouble. The sensible thing at that moment would've been to turn right around, hobble back to the room and change into the black flats stored in my luggage. But, this was one of those times when determination (read "stubborness") won out over common sense and I haltingly trudged on, thinking if I passed a shoe store along the way, I might just look for a more suitable substitute.

Shuffling down the street at a pace similar to Tim Conway's Mr. Tudball character on the old Carol Burnett shows, panic set in when I realized I was going to have to do something fast, lest I pitch face-first into some mystery puddle in my path. I actually did pass a shoe store and bolted inside, scouring the inventory for rescue relief. To my amazement, the selection they offered made my hooker heels look like frumpy flats!

Back out on the streets, I was faced with a choice.. I was too far from the hotel to turn back now. I couldn't possibly show up at the restaurant in this predicament and where-in-the-French-Quarter was I going to find a real shoe store? Canal Place Shoppes hadn't opened yet, and besides, short of a cab ride, I knew I'd never make it that far. Whipping out my trusty cell phone, I activated the GPS and performed a shoe-store search,  and voila! A teeny-tiny, oh-so-exclusive little shoe boutique could be found on Chartres Street, just a few short blocks from where I was stuck. Getting there would prove to be another challenge.

Because time was running short, I had to resort to the unthinkable which was to doff the spikes and carry them, trotting through the thankfully deserted mid-morning streets until I got close enough to the shoe store to shove them back on and teeter my way in. Within seconds, I spotted a gorgeous pair of t-strap pumps with a SENSIBLE (but still stylish) heel in you-guessed-it, the exact same copper metallic. There was no doubt about it - the Lord just meant this to be! For the first time in my life, I didn't even look at the price (but being a brand I'd worn before, I figured they would surely be in my price-range). I just asked for my size and the clerk quickly fetched them and rang them up. A mild jolt of sticker-shock shot through me when I saw that my reprieve from tootsie-torture would set me back a cool C-note, but hey desperate times call for desperate purchases. I felt pretty sure that "no shoes, no service" would be the prevailing policy at Arnauds.

Not wanting to appear so redneck that I would actually wear my new purchase out of the chi-chi boutique, I hobbled across the street to a Community Coffee House. There, I quickly changed shoes and not wanting to show up at the luncheon hauling a large sack of shoebox, I placed the hooker heels in the box and left them on the ladies room counter for some fortunate soul to find later.

And,  I've looked for those shoes every time I've passed those certain clubs on Bourbon ever since!