I don’t care what anyone says: guys have it easy when it comes to looking good. I say this as I massage my painfully blistered feet from walking across campus in those ever-stylish pointy boots that are on almost every girl’s feet this season. Let me tell you, those babies are not built for a comfortable stroll from the Culp Center to Warf-Pickel and back again. For the ladies who wear them every day, I salute you, but you must have feet of steel or know some way to walk in them without wanting to amputate your toes.
Let me start from the beginning. I am a tennis shoe or flats kind of girl. You might see me around Rogers-Stout with a pair of Converse, but if I’m wearing heels, I either have a special presentation or I’m going to a funeral. This past Friday, it was the former.
As a member of SPJ, I was drafted to run their booth for Mass Communications Day and hand out pamphlets to potential ETSU students. As I figured I would be seeing a lot of new faces and needed to make a good impression, I decided black pants, a nice sweater and the dreaded black pointy boots were the way to go.
The day didn’t start out badly. The boots were comfortable and I will say without modesty that I looked pretty nice. I wondered to myself why I didn’t always dress up and thought with confidence that I would from now on make more effort to look presentable.
Once I arrived (late as usual) at the Culp Center where Mass Comm Day was being held, I rushed around to set up my booth and make it look professional. My feet were still in good condition, albeit slightly unhappy from being forced into a Barbie-like stance. Just then, I realized I had forgotten to grab old editions of the East Tennessean and applications for the students. This required me to walk to the old College of Medicine building and back, which started the warning signs of what was to come. My feet were showing the beginning signs of blisters and my arches were aching. I was determined to tough it out and made it back to the booth in time to sit down before the students started arriving.
After sitting down for an hour, I forgot about my feet . until I had to go to class. Rogers-Stout is not that far, so the pain was moderate. I sat through class with my beautiful boots propped up on the back of a chair, the throbbing of my toes gradually subsiding.
10:15 a.m. arrived, and I knew with certain horror that I must walk to Warf-Pickel in these death traps. I forgot to mention that they zip up the sides and the heels are 3 inches high, so in addition to my toes being jammed into the ends, they are being chaffed from the sides due to the zipper. Burning pain as I have never felt before shoots from my arches to my heels to my toes and back again. I wonder if my feet are literally going to fall off as they now feel like a separate entity.
Blisters are definitely on the sides of my smallest toes and on the balls of my feet. Burn, burn, burn. Throb, throb, throb. Finally, I hobble my way up to the fourth floor and heave a sigh of relief as a padded chair awaits me and my now disfigured feet. But no! A note on the door says my class is on the fifth floor today. I promise my feet I will treat them to a massage from my boyfriend as soon as I can and trudge up the stairs.
After class is over, I realize with dismay what I must do. As I had parked behind the Culp Center for this morning’s activities, of course, I must go back. My feet had slightly recovered from resting on a chair in the computer lab, but any good that was achieved was soon forgotten by my right and left mode of transportation. Blinding pain makes me almost delirious as I limp and lurch my way back to the sanctity of my Ford Focus.
As cars pass, I squint at them in fury, silently cursing each driver that is not a friend of mine who could possibly rescue me from this hell and drop me off at my car. I make it to the Culp Center and can’t take it anymore.
A girl gone mad, I yank off each torture device from my swollen feet and feeling a bit like a hippie, I make my way to my car barefoot and free. Even the pavement feels like a soft hug after the misery of the boots.
Finally, after some strange looks and a painful rock or two later, my destination is reached and I fall into the driver’s seat with a sigh. The evil black boots now sit silently, mocking me on the passenger’s side.
My dirty feet drive me home, and a nice bath and a few Band-Aids later, they’re good as new. And the boots? I hope they find a nice home with a fashionista who shops at Clothesline. I will proudly wear my sneakers.

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