The Death Of The Pointed Toe Shoe

It's the last season for the pointed toe shoe, and with this in mind, I've been trying to maximize the wear of my current pairs. Not quite to the extreme that I wear them with everything ("Hey nice argyle leotard and pointy pumps!"), but as much as possible.

This morning, as I hastily pulled on my pointed toe boots, nervously dragging my duffle suitcase, laptop bag, and oversize purse down the two flights of stairs from my apartment to the street, an unexpected thing happened. My pointed toe slipped through one of the long straps of my duffle, just as I stepped forward, thrusting me down the second flight of stairs, onto my knee and hip and finally landing on my back, duffle bag straddled between my legs.

It must have looked like one of those slapstick banana-peel-slipping scenes from an old movie, but it felt like my guts were going to drip out my side. I didn't bust anything, but the side I landed on was tender, red, and bleeding, and will surely turn a brilliant blue and black.

While it might seem easy to blame any number of factors for this fall -- carrying too many things, hurrying while running late, being preoccupied with the parking ticket I knew I was going to get, gravity... personally, I blame the pointy toed shoe.

Had I been wearing, say, a rounded toe, a flat sandal, or (heaven forbid!) a clog -- this never would have happened.

In a seemingly generic plot twist, stolen from the likes of J. Lo flick "The Wedding Planner," this rather attractive man came sprinting down my street -- he'd jumped out of his car, which he was parking, to see if I was okay. Let's face it, pausing during the moment when you've found a parking spot in San Francisco is a heroic act indeed.