Vanity: A Pain In My A**

The plan was simple: take a long-anticipated trip to NYC with a girlfriend.  The goals were simple too:

Sleep in

Soak in the vibrancy of NYC

Sleep in

Eat good food

Sleep in

See a show

Sleep in

Candidly, I also went to NYC with a secondary goal: I wanted look non-touristy while accomplishing my first tier goals.  I put together my outfits– and they were not stunning by any means, but they also weren’t culottes paired with solid white Reeboks and a Hard Rock Cafe tee-shirt.

We all know that the dead give-away for any tourist is shoes– tennis shoes, comfortable sandals, or anything with a large, cushiony rubber sole.  I was determined not to be quite so identifiable.  The only reason I packed my running shoes is because I fantasized about running along the Hudson River (which never happened, because sleeping in and early morning runs do not share space in my Venn diagram).  I planned to stride through NYC in my little Tory Burch flats– up and down Broadway and through each and every neighborhood from our hotel (in Mid-Town) to our brunch spots (in the Village).

Yummy brunch at Prune

Yummy brunch at Prune

“Hey, look at me, NYC, I am one of you. I want, in the three seconds of time that I pass through your life, you to think I am from here.  Or around here.  Or at least from the Mid-Altantic states.”

Was it vain? Oh hell yes.

Did it work? Probably not, considering I had my non-matching purse slung sideways across my body, and I still have my Texas twang all these years later.  Plus, I spent half my time snapping pictures (like all natives) and the other half standing in line for half-priced tickets to Broadway shows (doesn’t Woody Allen spend his weekends doing that too?).  I bet I only saw about 45 native New Yorkers, and I bet none of them thought twice about me or my stupid little flats.

Seriously, do I look like a tourist?

Seriously, do I look like a tourist?

I didn’t have to consult the Old Testament to see what God thinks about vanity.  I only had to check my ass, which was where God smote me for my vanity.  My left glute started hurting the day I got back from my walk-a-thon-in-sh*tty-shoes.  I stood up from playing with Simon and there was a slight twinge.  I tried to shake it off.  It didn’t work.  Everyday it got a little worse, but I tried my own version of sports medicine: denial.  I ignored it and proceeded to run, spin and run some more on my hurt booty.  By this week, I could hardly walk.  Wednesday night, I literally had to drop Simon in his crib because bending over so taxed my glutes.  He cried. I cried.

So I went to the physical therapist.  “Please fix my ass,” I requested humbly.  Within two minutes of watching me stand, he deduced that I pulled my left glute.  The prescription: a minimum two weeks of rest.  To a runner and someone who may, on occasion, use exercise to deal with unpleasant feelings, taking two weeks off feels like a sentence to Abu Ghraib.  Let me be clear, there is a part of me that would rather be stripped, blindfolded and made to lie at the bottom of a human pyramid than to forego exercise for two weeks.

That’s just sick.

Guess what?  The therapist thinks that perambulating around NYC in over-priced ballet flats may have caused my butt to break.  My soul shrunk a few sizes hearing that.  It’s not like I took my platform sandals with me.  They weren’t flip flops, for God’s sake.  Why can’t a girl have a little taste of glamor on her once-in-a-lifetime trip?  And now I can’t exercise? SAY IT AIN’T SO.

What’s vanity done you? Have you lost your exercise privileges because of vanity? How did you survive?


17 thoughts on “Vanity: A Pain In My A**

  1. If it’s any consolation, you did look damn cute (read stylish, hot, fashionable – hell, read any way you want 🙂 ). I wish I could relate to your despair around vanity or feelings or exercise restrictions, but I tend to handle any/all limitations joyfully and easily. For example, I felt real gratitude for the big ass wound my cute new patent leather shoes imparted during our trip. Sigh. My positive attitude is a cross I must endure. Love you! Hope your ass is better soon.

  2. You know I relate to the intractable pain of exercise restriction. And I think your post was a message from the universe for me; but I may have to ignore the message. Just yesterday, I gave in to my deep longing to purchase ivory satin ballet flats (with unfinished edges and a delicate but sparkly strap) to get married in. That I wear hideous orthopedic shoes every day – no matter f-ing what given my ridiculous foot and ankle woes over the years – does not escape me. Is it worth waking up the morning after with a new freaking last name, friends and family flying back to their respective home states, but not be able to spin it out on my bike? OY!

  3. ballet flats have no arch support. that’s why native new yorkers clomp around in clogs (in wild and sparkly colors), Doc Martins, and platform shoes that are TALL but not steep (like stilettos). As long as it’s black, you’re good. Take from a long-term NYCer, next time, wear whatever the hell you want and accessorize with attitude. That’s the New Yorker way.
    as for excercise: could you swim? gently, like an old lady, with a kickboard? : )

  4. I admire your fortitude. I’ve surrendered looking native some time ago – especially since I travel with Mr. Midwest now.

    I can introduce you to the joys of swimming without using your legs! Fun times ahead. Your post was hilarious, but it’s a bummer how much the ass hurts.

    By the way, if you’re ever in Midtown or on the subway during rush hour, you’ll see that most native New Yorkers wear sneakers to work and change their shoes when they get there, so for your next NY trip, sleep all day and come out in sneakers around 9am and 5pm. You’ll fit right in,

  5. Oh vanity, my old friend…Let’s see. I once picked up some random hitchhiker because I won’t wear my glasses and thought he was someone I knew. Thankfully he was more scared of me because of my glasses-less driving than I was of getting knifed in the eye by a random hitchhiker.

    I mean, it’s not as cool as breaking my ass but there it is.

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