Buckle shoes? Or sueded death traps? Hint: LATTER.

A few months ago, I rekindled my flame with Ebay in order to purchase an adorable pair of flats I had my eye on. I won the auction, spent a good 10 percent of my paycheck, and within 4 days had an adorable pair of designer buckle shoes.

Fu. King. Buk. Le. Shoes.

My problems began a few weeks ago at a bar. On my way to the ladies room, perfectly sober, my heel hydroplaned on a slick surface and I staged a perfect gymnast's landing, down on one knee, arms up in the air. My "Self-Deprecating Sally" mode kicked in, and I joked around with a man lucky enough for front row seats. "9.0!" he yelled. "I'm such an asshole!" I dropped my head in my hands and cracked up. Ol' Klutzaroo Coll-coll!

Now you might want to remind me that I've fallen in many another shoe. But these buckle shoes were different. See, the shoe was a flat (and if you know me, you know there is no other way. Although for $50 bucks an hour, I'll toe dance in your living room). The flat heel was subtley v-shaped, obviously a manufacturing error. So every now and again, when my heel went to dig into the ground, the angle was such that nothing would hit the floor and I would instead slip and fall. To put it simply: The shoes were fucked up. But I continued to wear them, because, well I loved my buckle shoes.


How on earth did these boys find my clog collection!?

Last night, after only one or two glasses of wine, I slipped down a single stair. I only wish my life was being secretly filmed so that I could cut and paste these follies into a killer Joe Pesci tribute video. It's so much easier to blame the wine than the buckle shoes.

So was the case this morning as I dressed, my geisha-like ritual of applying white paint to my fatchay and pomegranate jam to my lips. I buttoned my blazer, hot glued my hair out of my face, and slipped my feet into not so much "buckle shoes", really more like "death peds."


Let's cut to the chase, shoes.

I grabbed my purse, locked the door and was on my way. Walking down my street, saying good morning to all of the supers and handy men that hose down the vomit left by last night's homeless. Once at Broadway, the light changed as I strutted my way west, cutting across the street and bee-lining for the subway entrance.


Just another typical work day.

It was then that my left foot hit a slick patch of gravel. All struttiness came to a screeching halt. I fell forward, and with nothing to grab onto, landed squarely on my right knee. All the weight of my torzo, my upper leg, hitting my knee and shooting the bone straight into my throat. All happening in front of the IMAX-like Starbucks window on Broadway.

"Are you OK?" asked one woman, without making eye contact and increasing her pace. "Are you alright?" asked two men behind her. "This happens to me on a daily basis!" I laughed. I stood up and smiled. "I'm fine! Thank you though." They continued on.


Seriously, totes fine you guys. Just chillin' on my b-room flah with my metal walking cage.

But I wasn't fine. A shooting pain went up my leg all the way to my hip. But if you've ever been in an embarassing melee, you know that the M.O. is to get the fuck away from the scene as fast as possible. So, much like Eric Idle in "National Lampoon's European Vacation", I hobbled my way to the train stairs, shakily getting out my Metrocard and swiping it through the turnstyle. I looked at the other people on the platform. Had they seen? Did they know? I limped my way past.


Flesh wound, etc.

As my heart rate slowed a little, I looked down at my calf. My jeans at this point were blood-soaked at the knee. I felt faint. Having just taken off some days at work, I couldn't possibly miss another day.


But I also wasn't getting on that train like Lyoo-te-nunt Day-an in Forest Gump.

Get out of there Collins. I hobbled up the stairs and power-gimp-walked to the drugstore for some supplies. It's always embarassing when you limp without a cane. Like you want people to know that it's not that you've forgotten how to walk, you're injured!! You're not unfit, you FELL because of a pair of BUCKLED SHOES and HURT YOURSELF!! Don't they get it!?

Once home, I sized up my injury. Not good. Speeddial Daddy. "Go to the ER." Sigh.

Luckily, the ER was around the corny from my abode. Now, following my rabies shot series, I was somewhat familiar with the St. Luke's ER. In fact, most of the nurses there remembered me. "Rabies Girl!" "That's me!" I felt proud.


Looking good, Billy Ray.

The doctor entered my little studio, where I'm reclining in a cloth gown reading Entertainment Weekly, like a Re-Re Mrs. Robinson. "Hello Doctor." He looked like Harold Ramis. I found this comforting. Egon would know all the right moves.

He checked my knee. "Well... it doesn't look like you broke it." I squirmed "Shouldn't I get an x-ray just in case?" "Ah yes, radiation therapy, as I call it." He snapped a glove and grabbed some iodine. "If it will make you feel better, we'll do it." Nothing like a zinger of a cancer joke to get the day moving along. A small British schoolboy entered the room. "Yes, please." He cleaned off the wound as I winced. The gravel had punctured it nice and good, and it was still bleeding really badly.

"I'm gonna need to stitch this."

STITCHES? Me?!

"One stitch," he continued.

Oh. Still... STITCH!? Me?!?


"Doctor, youuuuuuu wanted to see me?"

"First I just need to trim some fat out." My mind raced. "Well don't stop there doctor! Keep on a-cuttin! Aha! Ha."

Silence. Nothing worse than bombing in a sterile room while pantsless and in a miniature cloth gown, with the cold, rubber hand of death touching your wound.

I won’t babystep you through the stitch-receiving process, but it’s sort of like being a human voo doo doll. The palms of my hands dug into my cheeks as he stitched. FUCKING BUCKLE SHOES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I screamed silently.

Doc finished up. “I don’t think it’s broken…” he felt around some more. “But, what if?” I wondered. “Ok, then, to the x-ray room. It’s the only way you’ll feel better.”

I shuffled along, gown-clad, to the radiation waiting area. Within minutes, a friendly Jamaican man came to get me. “Mizz Collins? Come raight dis way, guhl. We gonna take an x-ray of da knee.” I liked him already. Getting stitches seemed much sexier when taking place on a tropical island. Once in the dim meat-locker of a room, he started quizzing me. “What happened to ya, guhl? What’s wrong? Yah huht yah knee or sometin?” “Yes, can you imagine? Me?!” I blathered, as if we went way back.

I continued: “I was walking to the train, and stepped on the curb, and” my eyes at this point traveled upward “there is a humongous cockroach on the wall behind you so I’m just gonna grab my bag and wait outside.” Injured and all, I gracefully swooped my up tote and hauled my ass-baring self into the busy hospital hallway.


If worn the right way, it's very Marc Jacobs.

I could hear him laughing inside. A few minutes went by. Then a reassuring “Thwack!” of a 4-inch long waterbug meeting its clipboard maker. The door creaked open. “Got it!” he was still laughing. “Ya didn’t even flinch or nuh-tin! Ya just kept right on tuh-kin! Good ting - me coworkah woulda flipped!” He continued laughing while my anime eyes nervously scanned the surrounding areas for more comically oversized vermin.

While I adjusted myself on the cold metal platform, he came over with a lead blanket. “Are ya pregnant?” he smirked. “I don’t know, but let’s not take any chances… blanket off!” He cracked up. “Blanket off she says! Well let’s make sure you have children in da future, right?” and threw the 50-pound sheath on top of my “region.” I chose not to tell him that the blanket probably wouldn’t effect how overly fertile I tend to be.


Luckily, I'm sure my regular accutane-grey-goose-tinis will cover all of my birth defecting bases.

Wrapping the story up! No broken bones, but a lot of soreness. Some meds. Not the good kind. Some bed laying. Back on my feet today though, and the wound looks worse than yesterday, but hurts less. It also means no kulatz until the swelling goes down (and it’s perfect kulatz weather!!!) But I will pull through. Thanks to all of your (heavily imagined) support.

Memo to potential lawyer-y types out there: Any chance I have a case against the shoe manufacturer? I don't want to give too much away, but his smug little face on Project Runway has been BEGGING to get sued.


Glad to see orange is in this season.