Tag Archives: internship

They looked so unassuming sitting on the glass shelf.

They were perfect: brown, wooden wedges with three leather straps. I had been thinking about them ever since I tried them on in May. I didn’t buy them because they were just another pair I didn’t need. But then again, who ever needs shoes? After  I got my first pay check, I decided to reward myself and buy the perfect sandals. I wasn’t a runway model in them, but I never am. That should have been my first clue: thinking I was graceful enough to pull off three-inch wedges. Mistake #1.

Today I decided to wear them to work. I usually bring a more comfortable pair of shoes to change into when I leave, but this time I chose not to. Mistake #2. Who needs comfortable shoes? I told myself. I’m tall. I’ve got long legs. I work for a fashion magazine. Surely I can handle some harmless little sandals for eight hours. Mistake #3.

Later today, on the phone with my mom, she asked how my day went. I told her I couldn’t remember because all I could think about was the pain reverberating through every bone in my feet. I wish I could say I was being dramatic. Those cute, innocent sandals kicked my ass. By the time I reached my cubicle–ten feet behind my sensible co-workers and their sensible shoes–I was longing for my beat up, smelly Target flats. I can do this, I told myself. I work at InStyle. Every woman hear traipses around in three inch stilettos. They all make it look so effortless, so elegant. I on the other hand, made it look neither effortless nor elegant. It was just as painful for people to watch me clunk around in my shoes as it was for me to clunk around in them. Every time someone passed me, he or she glanced from my face to my feet, as if that explained everything.  They looked at me with a mix of understanding and pity.  I tried not to hobble away in embarrassment as my colleagues sped past me, like I was a car doing 60 mph in the fast lane.

Standing up was the worst. Each time I let out a sigh (loud enough so the other interns could hear and perhaps take pity on me) and unwillingly pulled myself up. This great task was followed by a wince and a silent exclamation of “Fuck this hurts.” Halfway through the day, my abnormally narrow feet looked like Polish sausages. That is if Polish sausages were red and sweaty. During one extra hurtful trip to the copy machine, I almost ran into fashion director Hal Rubenstein,who I like to refer to as the glue that keeps InStyle’s binding together. I narrowly avoided wiping out one of the most important people at the publication. Mistake #4.

The rest of the day passed as such. More wincing, followed by swelling, a couple hobbles, and an overall limp to my walk. After leaving I made my way to Gap and bought the first pair of men’s flip flops I saw. My feet had never been so happy. On the way home I noticed a tall, graceful girl, her stilettos clacking steady and quick on the pavement. She made it look so easy, as she placed one strappy heel in front of the other. The sidewalk was her catwalk, and I was the girl in charge of cleaning off the runway. Then again, maybe she’s just a better actress than me, I thought to myself as I moved to the slow lane, letting people sweep by me.