The Well Heeled Baker

A little while ago I joined my bff, Z, for a little shopping excursion to a super swishy store in the Meat Packing district. She was hot to spend a gift certificate, I just relished the opportunity to take a break from Sugartown.
Initially I was completely taken by a Dior number, a floaty vermilion dream of a dress with a floppy poppy upon one shoulder; another story, another lifetime perhaps, sigh. What distracted me from my opiate laced dream, were the shoes. Glorious, well heeled shoes of insane proportions. Shoes not meant to be worked in. Shoes one would wear only to be carried about in a chariot no doubt. Chariot to elevator, chariot to desk, chariot to coffee machine…Still, I was taken.
With the work that I do, baking, and the occasional catering gig or cooking party, flat shoes are, as snoozy as my new perception makes them, a must—typically a pair of blunnies or converse. When I worked at AshBox I was so brazen as to wear flip-flops. This has for the most part meant that these vertically challenged varieties are the ONLY variety of shoe that I wear. From morning to night. From cradle to grave, I fear. Flat, flat, flat.
Adamant I was to change this. The other day a cute pair of very tall and strappy espadrilles caught my eye, and I snatched them up and brought them home. I slipped my feet into them, fed the tiny strap through the clasp, and off I went about my kitchen, posture improved, bum in the air. Simpler to reach those things on high, tho a bit of a wobbly challenge to dip low to retrieve needed items.
I now wear them when I cook supper, or test a new recipe। My daughter is taken with the notion as well, and uncovered quite a few pairs of long neglected heels of mine that are soon to experience a rebirth as we put them on and shuffle about. I have mastered the terrain of my kitchen, without too much pain, and with a bit of grace. I know that one day these heels will touch pavement, hopefully with chariot awaiting (that, or I remember to keep some flip-flops in my bag).