I am home alone while the BF is doing work related stuff, and I don't mind. I've got my feet up and I am breathing in the rain scented air from beyond the open shutter. Which incidentally smells like fresh squeezed wheat grass juice.
Since I am staying fairly close to an RER stop ( a kind of combination between what is considered a train and what is considered the metro) I get to see lots of people either leaving or returning from their commute. It boggles the mind how many women conqueror the steep cement in five inch stilettos. How does she do it? I especially admire the woman who fashioned a makeshift umbrella for her head out of a clear plastic bag. Warning labels be damned!
As for myself, I spent the other day walking for hours in flats, and nearly cowed to the pain. I resorted to counting my steps in an attempt to create a zen like rhythm in order to soothe my shot nerve endings. But, I refuse to accept that sneakers are the logical solution. I could not bear the shame of being the only twenty-something girl in Paris wearing unfashionable footwear. Not in the face of such overwhelming-stiletto wearing Parisian superiority.
No, I'll stay home, wear holey socks, and play the BF's Nintendo DS instead...
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