Thursday, July 15

Day 10087: In search of the girlie-girl... the continuing saga

I've worked hard over the past year to rediscover that little imp of a princess buried deep inside of me. I’ve lotioned and lathered, plucked and tweezed, shopped until I’ve dropped, suffered countless blisters from pretty and pretty impractical shoes, learned to smile prettily, pout prettily, and all those other nice “now-do-what-I-want-please” kinds of things. And to what avail, you might ask. Well, the answer, of course, would be none whatsoever.

Quite simply put – no matter how much pink I now have in my wardrobe, no matter that I wear skirts and dresses and heels to work at least three days out of five (if not more, might I add), no matter that I can now occasionally flirt with a total stranger and have him literally eating out of my hands, no matter that I’ve mastered the girlie basics of make-uptry and can apply liner, blush, shadow, mascara, lipstick and gloss all within four minutes and twenty-eight seconds – I’m still that shy awkward little girl who imagined herself being a princess for Halloween when she was seven, but ended up being a clown.

In the continuing saga of the quest for girlie-girlness, I bought fab new nine west sandals: black leather criss-cross, white stitching and the cutest little heel imaginable. Of course, after only an eon of wearing them (read: one and a half weeks), the heel isn’t so cute anymore, the leather is a little scuffed and who knew that the criss-cross would give me blisters in four different, yet very painful places. Regardless, I’ve persevered and worn them again and again, and smiled happily to myself as I look at my bright pink shiny pedicure.

“I am reaching true girlie-girlness,” I tell myself on my way to work this morning. “I’ve got a great outfit on. I’m already planning what I’m going to wear tomorrow… something pink, I think…“

“Look at me! Look at me!!” my heart screams as I walk through the Eaton Centre. “Look how far I’ve come from the girl who used to wear really icky baggy clothes and those funny Reebok pump sneakers... Yeah me!!!”

I walk with confident, BUT lady-like steps into the office lobby, march straight into the elevator where, oh shit… I stop dead in my tracks. Or rather, I’m forced to stop. My heel is caught… in the elevator door crack. And all I think as I desperately try to free my cute not-so-new sandal from it’s evil metal captor was… so close, so close, so close… every time the door tried to shut… on my shoe.

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