To celebrate, Divertimenti set Selvaggia up on a table at a club near the Piazza Repubblica called Yab. We've (and by that I mean all our roommates, all the guys, all our apartment building friends, and alot of other friends from school) been anticipating this birthday celebration for months. Selvaggia, Casalinga, Benny Lava, and myself went to H&M weeks ago to buy birthday dresses for the occasion. When the day finally came we were all really excited to drink and be merry in honor of Selvaggia's big day. The most exciting part, though, was the dress-up.
We invited everyone to our apartment to pre-game and before they all arrived Casalinga spent quite a while beautifying me, Selvaggia, and one of our neighbors. Casalinga has a very forthwith personality; she is passionate, wise, and strong in her convictions. She is such a strong person that you wouldn't guess her soft-side, ever. You wouldn't assume that a woman whose off helping change lives and standing up for her beliefs and opinions would have the time to know how to do hair so well. She rocks at it. She has done my hair a bunch of times and honestly I've never looked so good. She does magic, with my hair. Not to mention, she also does makeup. She seriously made the whole group we were with glam to the core. It was awesome.
This is what I looked like by the time she was done with me. I'm never going to look this awesome again when Casalinga goes home!
Anyway, the point is I made a big mistake this night. I figured that since my face and hair looked fabulous, my dress was slammin', I was in the company of a group of totally incredible looking people (including Moda who'd decided he was going to wear this amazing Tom Ford shirt which definitely cost more than I'm worth out on this night), and I was feeling like a million bucks, I would wear the thigh highs. I bought this particular pair of shoes at H&M on sale. Each of my roommates marveled at these boots when I got them because what was originally 120 euro I bought for 20. And yes, they are hot as hell. I bought them at the beginning of the semester and my roommates have ceaselessly urged that I wear them out and every time I told them no. I wasn't in the mood. I didn't think it worked with the outfit I had on. Etc. Etc. Tonight was the night and when I walked out of my room sporting this black sexy boots my roommates all exclaimed loudly, overjoyed with pride. I was finally going to wear them.
WHAT A STUPID STUPID IDEA! I've written in older posts about American girls who wear their tall shoes and regret it. I'm a stupid, stupid American girl. I was feeling really great about my decision to wear these shoes at the pre-game festivities in my apartment. The small group of us were having a great time. We were jamming out, clapping, and we had our own personal photographer snapping shots the whole time. I had no pain in my feet and I thought Hell Yes! Finally a pair of boots that won't ruin my ability to walk normally tomorrow. The thing is though, I was in my apartment. Not walking, mostly sitting. How dumb can I be? The minute we started down the stairs I understood the folly of my choice in the thigh highs. Yab isn't that far away from my apartment. Its about 8 minutes on foot. I felt every second of those 8 minutes. Halfway through and Moda says to me "Girl, you're stompin'" and this was true. I knew then I was in for it. My feet weren't going to forgive me.
I danced. I danced alot. It was Selvaggia's 21st birthday and I was determined to put the pain aside and dance until my feet were stumps. I stood as much as I could, and when the pain became unbearable I sat down at our table. Yab is a really sweet place, by the way, just super expensive. The music isn't dreadful, either. Anyway, after about five solid hours of dancing my feet were protesting loudly in my shoes. I tried so hard to ignore it but for the last hour I absolutely had to sit down and give my swollen toes a rest. When we exited the club around 3 in the morning I would equate the feeling in my feet to that of a Chinese traditionalist who binds her feet every morning. PAINFUL. Walking home was a mistake. I don't care if I live 8 minutes away on foot, I should have called a cab. I wanted to cry. Truth be told, I was sniffling a little. I thought I was going to have to get my feet amputated or operated on or something because the feeling in my boots was dreadful.
I took the elevator up to my room. A monumental thing for me to do. That elevator wants to kill me. I walked into my apartment and Selvaggia and I spent a solid five minutes trying to get my shoes off. Sweet, sweet relief. My feet looked like post-pregnancy feet. I had fat pink balls on the ends of my legs. I limped around the whole next day, refusing to take stairs anywhere and remaning in my bed as much as possible. I'd say, though, that coming home with fat pink balls for feet is a sure sign of a fun night.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
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