When 'Girly' triumphed 'Feminist'....

I'm actually a feminist. I border on man-hating, but try to maintain a balance in emotion towards men. (Bitterness isn't good for anyone, you see).
The reason I'm desperately trying to convince you of this, is that it requires conviction, considering the following incident, which occured on my birthday and I felt I had to write on my birthday :-D.

November 16th. Birthday.
6.30 AM

Shiny white quilted wedge heels.
I spend 5 apprehensive minutes, striding between rooms in my Grandparents' (GPs') house. "To wear or not to wear".
I have vague memories of the last time I wore them. Snapshot visuals and a few lines. I and Urja. Feet hurting. Living through it. Very importantly, living through it.
I should love myself, I think. Love my feet. Not take this risk.
But they're so cute....

8.55 AM onwards

"Suk! Nice shoes!" a friend calls, from a parallel bench. I beam, my happiness doubled. Totally worth it.
An hour later, I'm in slight discomfort and looking on to the task of walking to Sterling with distaste. At a book sale, I've shed my shoes and am reading 'The Restricted Joke Book', barefoot.

My steps to VT to meet Urj are punctuated with silent 'Ow ow ow ow ow's and accompanied with clenching fists.
I stumble: forward, to hug Urj,
and then through Colaba Causeway in search of a t-shirt I chose, barefoot again, for Yash.
The next 2 hours that we spend at Crepe Station try their best to make up for the 3 minute walk from Khubsons to the taxi.
The 3 cute firang guys on the way saw my face twisted in agony, fists clenched and stiff gait. Attractive.

6.30 PM

Ritika and I miss 3 trains in pursuit of the elusive comfort of that window seat, so I have something to lean on. She has been unbelievably patient. I would've snapped ages ago.
Took a rickshaw home from the station for the 2nd time in 3 years.

8.00 PM

Made it home just in time. Somehow managed to control the desire to fling the shoes off and very dignifiedly slipped out of them and walked around, acting like nothing was wrong.
Oh no, not that anything was. My feet had only just, on entering the 18th year of their existence in this world, been put through torture to celebrate that very occasion.

I'm sitting in the hall now, 10.30 PM, on the couch which I will pull out to sleep on, and whenever I look up from the book, my eyes collide with the white wedge heels, sitting innocently by the door.
I have not the courage to put them back in the bag they lived in before I drew them out on some girlish whim. (That would involve touching them, see.)

Never Again, I decide. I'm never touching those shoes again.

Although, turning 18 does instill in one, knowledge of one's cyclical thought processes.
2 months later, I'll probably look at those shoes and rack my brains to remember why exactly I have avoided these 'nice shoes' for so long. At that time, I'll probably remember the thought, not the feeling.

A cycle, you see, of forgetfulness, optimism and a slavish desire to look good is what drives this femal masochism.

And, as I've discovered, it isn't something feminists are immune to either.