Sunday, 29 July 2012

Crazy Heels

For those of you who don’t know, I am very short.   Not in a creepy dwarfish kind of way, but let’s just say that if I were a guy, it would be really embarrassing to be this little.   Although I often think how much easier life would be if I were just a smidgen taller, I have come to the realisation that there is absolutely nothing that I can do about it (unless I go for that weird surgery where they break your knee-caps and stretch your tendons - see Grey’s Anatomy - but for some reason that doesn’t really appeal to me).   And so, I do what any sane person in my situation would do, and I wear heels.

I love high heels.   The shape of them, the colour of them, the really powerful feeling that I get when I wear them...   I am certain that shoe designers save all of their creative awesomeness for heels alone, because they are undoubtedly the best-looking shoes of all.   Having said that, I have to admit that they are not the most comfortable things on the planet.   And when I find myself in a situation where the evening has not turned out as I had hoped, and I stand there bored and with throbbing feet, I often wonder which sadist invented these beautifully painful masterpieces.

Bearing this in mind, I decided to do a little bit of research and post pictures of the most ludicrous high heels that I could find.   Yes yes, they were probably created as artworks as opposed to practical shoes, but I think some of these designers have taken their creations a step too far!


















And finally, the Guinness World Record for the highest heeled shoes commercially available goes to these beauties: 11 inch platforms and 16 inch heels.   Ouch!


Sunday, 22 July 2012

Y Da Effort?


As mentioned in my previous post, I need to buy a dress for my cousin’s wedding in September.   Yes, I know that I still have nearly two months to find said dress, but outfits such as these require careful planning and foresight.   So yesterday, when I heard that YDE was having its winter sale, I decided to brave the cold and see whether I could find something amazing for half the price.   Little did I know that I should have stayed in my nice warm bed and saved myself the hassle.

When I walked into the YDE at Cavendish shopping centre, I was greeted by a burly-looking security guard who eyed me up and down as if trying to decide whether I was concealing a weapon in my not-so-large handbag.   He did not warm up to me even after I flashed him my best grin, and so I quickly decided to give up on being nice and get down to business.   For those of you who are not au fait with YDE etiquette, shoppers are limited to trying on a meagre four items of clothing at a time.   For some this is a completely reasonable number, but for a hard-core shopper like myself (who likes to give everything a try), I knew that it was going to be a long day.

As I began my search for the sublime, I was quickly distracted by the large number of little people in the shop.   They were hard to ignore as they ran up and down the aisles, stopping every now and then to pull a highly inappropriate dress from the rack and gasp phrases such as “Oh my gosh, this is SO di-vine!”   Not to so sound like a grumpy granny or anything, but these kids couldn’t have been more than ten and were definitely not in possession of the necessary assets to fill such garments.   “Since when do ten year olds shop at YDE?”, I thought to myself as I quickly picked up four items and headed for the changing room.   “I can barely afford to shop here and I’m 23!”

When I reached the waiting room, I came face-to-face with a glamazon who would look ten times prettier if she actually smiled once in a while.   I handed over my garments and pleasantly greeted her, to which she responded with a suspicious look as if she thought that I was trying to trick her in some way.   A rightful concern of course – how many times have you heard of people fooling innocent shop assistants by being nice to them?   When I finally entered the terribly-lit fat-enhancing changing room, I soon discovered why the shop was swarming with ten year olds: clearly they were the only people who could actually fit into the clothes on offer.   As I squirmed my way out of the second dress that I had tried on, I quickly came to the conclusion that according to YDE standards I was definitely not a “small”, and even “medium” was pushing it a bit.   Just the thing to get the old self-esteem going on a Saturday morning!

Needless to say, none of my four items fitted and I took a deep breath and decided to try again (me being the devoted shopper that I am couldn’t give up on the first attempt!).   As I raked the next rack of clothes, I started to notice that the vast majority of dresses and skirts that I came across were sporting a definite hooker vibe – a ten-year old hooker of course, because real hookers wouldn’t be able to fit into them.   Most consisted of very little fabric and were crafted out of a stretchy material that looked very similar to that of sausage casing.   I, being the prude that I am, decided that this was not appropriate wedding attire and went in search of something a bit less...risqué.

By the time I had found four dresses that actually covered my rear-end (most of them were ‘large”) there was a queue waiting for the dressing room.   The glamazon had been replaced by a man whose lifelong desire was clearly to be a cattle-herder, and I felt my temper rise as I was forcibly pushed backwards to a “safe distance” from the changing room.   As if this wasn’t enough, “Babe” then proceeded to order us from left to right, all the while checking that we weren’t trying to smuggle in an illegal extra item of clothing.   When I finally reached the front of the queue and walked into the changing room, this brute of a man yelled after me as if I was about to detonate a bomb, just so that he could check (for the millionth time) that I only had four (yes FOUR) garments. 

After an hour of determined shopping, I had found absolutely nothing and was left with only one more dress to try on.   Surprisingly, this one actually fitted, and as I examined myself in the mirror I saw a ray of hope after a very long and frustrating shopping session – was I actually going to buy something?!   Things were looking up until I looked at the tag to see how much the dress was.   It wasn’t the price that deterred me, but more the fact that my potential purchase belonged in the tween section and was an age 13-14.   As I pulled the dress off, I could do nothing but laugh at the irony that I could fit into an age 13-14 dress but not a “small”, and decided that it was time to call it a day.   I walked out of the dressing room past the unsmiling glamazon, past “Babe” the cattle-herder, past the shrieking ten year olds, and past the grouchy security guard, and thought to myself,
Y Da Effort?”                                

Monday, 16 July 2012

Run Karen Run!

Hello faithful readers! I know that it has been a while, but I am now back in freezing Cape Town ready for a new term and a whole load of new posts.   To mark the start of the second half of 2012, I decided to compile some mid-year resolutions since I never got round to making any in January!   Seeing as I am a walking cliché when it comes to many things girly, you will be unsurprised to hear that at the top of my list is “get fit and lose some weight”.   This highly unoriginal goal is made even more necessary due to the fact that my cousin is getting married in September, meaning that I have exactly 2 months to find a dress and look fabulous in it!

Now although I am devoted to my bi-weekly yoga classes, and I often dabble in a bit of weight training, the one thing that I am absolutely useless at is running.   I think this is largely due to the fact that I absolutely loathe the activity and try to avoid it at any and all costs.   But in the spirit of upholding resolution number 1, I decided to try and face this demon head-on and this afternoon I decided to go for my first run in ... well in a while!
The first bit of torture involved me having to strip off the numerous layers that coated my body and hop around my bedroom like a rabbit with frost-bite, whilst trying to find some appropriate running attire.   Once dressed and relatively enthused, I stepped out of my front door and was greeted with air so cold that I could feel my saliva freezing in my now agape mouth.   It took nearly all of my will-power not to turn around back then and there and flee into the warmth of my flat in surrender, but there was no way that I was giving up on my first attempt.

The run started off okay, but within the first 5 minutes I could feel my chest closing up and my limbs turning to jelly.   “How is this possible?!”, I thought to myself in between pants.   “Why has my body turned into a useless lump that is finding it so difficult to run a few meters?!”   All I could hear was the thud of my heart and this little voice in my head telling me that there’s no way that I can do this, I may as well give up now.   But after a minor pit-stop (to take in the view, of course), I continued on my tortuous journey and my hatred for running slowly began to lessen to immense dislike.   That is, until I passed a herd of braces-clad school girls who giggled loudly and made mocking impersonations of me as I passed.   I know that I must have looked pretty ridiculous (nobody looks great when they run), but they could have at least saved their ridicule for once I couldn’t see or hear their jeers!   

Although this humiliation prompted me to stop and go home, I decided that I couldn’t let a group of pre-pubescents win and I kept on going, comforted by the thought of what will happen when my tormenters discover what happens to your metabolism when you hit your twenties.   By this stage I had completed 15 gruelling minutes of running (not to count the minutes of walking in between), and I only had another 10 to go.   Apart from a few minor heart-attacks on the up hills - and me wondering why I felt it necessary to live in a suburb that is largely situated on a steep slope - I was doing okay and learning to ignore the expletives that were popping into my head with each passing step.

With only 5 minutes left, my muscles had progressed to a soft and mushy state similar to that of baby food, and I was beginning to develop a strange tingly feeling across my right buttock (is that normal?).   And then I rounded a corner and came face-to-face with an extremely big and largely populated construction site.   Now men, please take note that the last thing a tired, sweaty, red-faced, tingly-assed female wants to hear on the last stretch of a run is a cat-call.   Or a wolf-whistle.   In fact, any kind of comment yelled out by a man in a luminous orange vest is not going to be appreciated.   Owing to the fact that this was the largest construction site in the history of man-kind, I had to endure all of these things as I forced myself to keep on going past my admirers and as far away as possible.   

By the time I got home, I had successfully run for 25 out of 35 minutes, and felt pretty proud of myself for getting to the other side of my ordeal in one piece.   Despite the heart palpitations, the self-ridicule, the teenage-mocking, and the cat-calls, my run was semi-tolerable and I am definitely going to give it another go.   Go me!   Let’s just see how my legs feel in the morning...

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Blake Lively on the Red Carpet

I don't even know what can be said about this dress, except that it is absolute perfection!   This proves that true love does not necessarily come in the form of a red-blooded male.   I want to take this dress home and introduce it to the family.   Stunning.