The night my feet gave me the middle finger and screamed a big “F*** YOU!”

“Shoes that are too tight or ill-fitting inevitably give you a tired and tortured look, which is hardly the impression an elegant woman wishes to create” – A Guide to Elegance, Genevieve Antoine Dariaux

When I was a little girl and used to visit my grandmother, I would wince every time I caught a glimpse of her feet. Wawa, as we called her, was blessed with flawless skin kudos to her Filipino genes, and when she passed away at 91, there was not one wrinkle on her beautiful face. But her feet told another story, with hideously gigantic bunions that caused her second toes to permanently place themselves on top of her big toes.

I always wondered how she managed to still don heels at her elderly age. Despite wearing low heels, the bunions that festooned her delicate and soft feet, appeared harrowing. And to think she had various operations to remove them, I cannot imagine just how much pain they caused her.

Hereditary in my family, my mother also suffers from bunions, though not yet to the extent my grandmother suffered. My mom is perhaps much more careful in her choice of footwear so as not to aggravate the protruding bone. She is so careful, it’s to the point that I am still receiving constant lectures from across the country, regarding my love for stylish shoes that are nothing short of brutal for my feet.

You see I used to think my feet were invincible. Bunions? Pfft.. Bunions to me were a thing of a very far-away future, painful and ugly deformations that I would acquire when I reached my grandmother’s twilight years. Low and behold at 22 years young, I am now quietly suffering.

My theory on ridiculously high heels in all shapes, materials and sizes is quite simple. If you choose to wear shoes that are criminal to your feet, then you suffer the consequences quietly. On a night out on the town, I don’t believe in taking your shoes off, no matter how agonizing the pain or how red-raw the blister. Removing ones heels and walking about the streets barefoot in an expensive dress is something to look down upon. A lady never takes off her shoes in public. Not until she is in the comfort of her own house. I would never even DREAM of removing my shoes until I have reached the safety of my bedroom, let alone whining loudly about the world of pain I am in. These thoughts of hell I would rather keep to myself, why let on to every Tom, Dick and Harry about how much you are suffering to look so damn good? The art of looking every bit amazing, should be effortless.

But looking amazing has started to take its toll, thanks to the help of a pair of über-hot heels in my wardrobe that are inspired by these fabulous Alexander McQueen’s:

Incredibly short space at the front of the shoe to squeeze 1/3 of your foot into.

It all started a couple of weeks back when on the night of a close friend’s birthday, I had to pike and go home early, at the silly hour of 1am.

After years of abuse and hours upon hours of non-stop dancing til six in the morning on various club floors throughout the past five years, my poor feet decided to give me the middle finger. And it was a rude shock indeed.

Believe it or not, my feet are not separate entities, they are one. Two souls in one body. They know their job, and they know the drill all too well: dance until the sunrise and the shoes come off when we get home, even if that involves walking home. But for the first time ever, they couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the drill. They gave me the middle finger and screamed a big ‘FUCK YOU’ to boot.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I could no longer appear cool, calm and collected. When the clock struck midnight I turned into one of those girls I promised myself to never become. Those females that whinge and whine about the immense discomfort caused by their poor choice of footwear. You know the ones. After almost another hour, I just couldn’t stay out anymore. My bed was calling me, and it was getting louder and louder by the second.

When I got home that night, it was then that I accepted defeat. A competitive and feisty young lady, I do not like to lose in any situation. But that night (11th October 2008 to be precise) I sadly lost and will happily admit it.

Although a few weeks have gone by since then, I assumed my feet would return to their normal selves. There is nothing worse then embarking on a fabulous night out, knowing there is the potential for your feet to misbehave at any given moment. Especially on a date.

Unfortunately however, it seems to me that the parts at the very end of my body have clearly had enough. And I knew it was serious when running on the treadmill at the gym the other day (in sneakers, of course…) and the bunion on my right foot started to ache.

So what’s a girl to do? Stress? No, that causes skin break-outs. Cry? No, waste of Diorshow mascara. Slap her butt down on the couch on a Saturday night to give her feet a rest and blog about it? Probably so.

I don’t believe in quitting, it’s not ingrained in my genes to quit. Quitting equals failure and I don’t believe in failure. Failure is unattractive and hardly fabulous. So yes, I will continue to be stupid and wear stupidly hot and fabulous heels. An operation is inevitable anyway, and I’m only 22 for Pete’s sake. Still young, carefree and frivolous. Besides, there is a whole season of sculptural heels waiting to be discovered…

In Pursuit of Perfection: When It’s Just Not Enough.

He was like something out of a movie. Prince Charming almost. For most girls, he would have been a dream come true. But for me, his faultlessness became annoyingly boring and I started to despise him.

Mr X was lovely. Yes, lovely. A term I would rather not use for a male, but he was indeed lovely. A true gentleman and one of a kind. He would open the car door for me, helping me out. He would ask me a few days, even a week in advance to go out together, so he could make a booking at whichever restaurant I wanted to go to. I liked that. He was organised and well-mannered.

He would dress elegantly and impeccably. When we went out together it was like we were a celebrity couple or something. Heads would turn whenever we walked into a café or restaurant. We looked good together and we both loved to schmooze. It was almost sickening how we were so into each other every time we went out in public. It was like we were the perfect couple. He did everything for me and doted on me so much.

He would always pick me up, and was always on time. If he was running late he’d call or text me. He would always reply to my messages and answer his phone when I called, even if he was preoccupied at the time. When he rang and I didn’t pick up, he’d leave me voice mail messages. He would always tell me where he was, what he was doing and who he was with.

He’d listen to my whinging and whining about the stupidest of things. He was always there without fail when I needed to rant and just wanted someone to listen. He cared and he showed it.

He loved everything about me and told me all the time. He made me feel like a princess and treated me like one too. He loved every bit of me that I hated. Not just every now and then, but consistently. He was faultless.

But it became annoying and sometimes sickening. It seemed like he thought the sun shined out of my ass and all I wanted him to do was disagree with me occasionally and challenge me. When I asked him if he thought I had attitude, he told me it was ’spunk’. I’d say the most stupid and silly things because I knew I could and I didn’t have to impress him. Things so silly that would make me look even more silly, but I only did it to get a reaction. I was a little bitch and he seemed to only like me even more.

In truth he was everything I wanted in a guy. His perfect and warm persona not to mention handsomely good looks made him a great catch. He was very attractive, with almost perfect features, but not cocky whatsoever. A true gentleman. On a superficial level he would have made the best husband, were I at that stage of my life.

But as a selfish bitch currently embracing hedonism in all its glory, I need something more than all this perfection and organisation which I languished for, for such a long time.  I want excitement and fun; spontaneity and impulsiveness. A challenge and not a walk-over.

Mr X is seeing someone else now and I am happy for him. I hope he finds someone that can appreciate and embrace the amazing qualities he possesses and that are so rare to find these days. He ticked all the boxes, yet sadly, for me that just wasn’t enough.