When I left the house today, I looked at my shoes and thought "Should I change them?"but then the evil stupid part of my brain just shrugged and ran.
So... I don't understand females, even though I am without a doubt a card-carrying member of the species. What on earth entices us to go "Huh. It's a thin pointy structure with a stiff angled platform attached to it.... Why don't I attach it to my feet by means of tiny little straps that bite into my flesh and rejoice as I watch my toes dangle over the edge of them? And while I'm at it, why don't I wear a tiny little tube of fabric shorter than it is wide that forces me to cross my legs to preserve any sort of modesty? And hey, now that I'm on a roll here... my face isn't good the way it is... Pencils! And brushes! And wands! And strange torture-instrument looking things! All next to my eyes! Wax pastes on my mouth, so that everything it touches has tell-tale lip marks! No need to show my real skin-- a layer of tinted crud will do instead! But as for my breast-- no covering! They must be on display, pert, alert and ready for action.
I sit here, in an interenet cafe on Nevsky waiting for my friends so we can go to this jazz bar already, and somehow my evening out clothes look like an awful awful idea in the daytime. And I'm not even wearing anything particularly risque by St. Petersburg daytime standards (then again, I could probably dress in a lace bodystocking with crotch cutouts and nobody would bat an eye) but at the same time, when I stop and actually think of what I'm wearing and the original purpose-- it doesn't so much work together. Shoes-- they are feet coverings. Fine, but mine cover about 30% of the top half of my foot. High heels-- useful for short women. I'm 5'8, 5'9 (around 175 cm, I think) on a good day. Now I'm touching the 6 foot mark. Maybe it's just the blisters these fuckers have given me that are making me grumpy but it does kind of piss me off that guys can gleefully cavort into bars and clubs wearing perfectly ordinary daytime wear, but girls have to be all dolled up before they can even vaguely consider presenting themselves out for an evening of drinks or dancing or something. Natural skin? Not even Cindy Crawford could dare. It's quite annoying.
Regardless, my friends are now here, and I'm going to ignore my blister and teeter sedately out and strut my stuff among the Peterburgians, towering above everyone in my wake. Wish me luck on not falling over.