People are often curious how people live in New York. It's an interesting place, a challenge of sorts:
Washer/dryers are status symbols, everyone is a foodie yet also obsessed with achieving the 'heroin-chic' look (hilarious Wikipedia has an entry for that), I'm constantly strategizing how to do errands, mapping out routes in my head adding in the logistical factor of my 2-arm carrying capacity.
And because I live in a very central location of the city, virtually everything I need lies in a walkable radius. Transportation usually has me contemplating taking the train 1 stop or a cab about 9 blocks. I scoff at each option, and soldier on foot.
So what it all boils down to is walking. Lots of it.
I'm already 6 feet tall, which is far above average anywhere in the world. It seems like here in Little Ireland/Little Italy/Little Israel, this feature is especially pronounced. I swear I saw a little old granny today who was pushing 4 feet.
It's why I have so many (5?) pairs of (flat) boots. They can fancy up an outfit just like heels, but they're as comfy as walking shoes and I don't have to be as Amazon. Success.
But for some stroke of stupidity in judgment today, I reasoned I could walk my route in heels. They are maaaybe 2 inches. And I walked 1.6 miles in them (just Google Direction'ed it, you're welcome).
I could feel blisters building with each step, when I wasn't gawking at every other woman wondering how they were all traipsing along with such heeled ease.
I got home, threw them in my closet. Lest I forget the error of my ways, I don't see them as part of my sartorial repertoire anytime soon (ever again?!).
Then immediately I performed necessary surgery on myself. 'Normal' blister rules (read: leaving them alone) does not bode well for this city, wherein your feet are your lifeline, so to speed up 'recovery' time, I cleaned off the tip of a safety pin with rubbing alcohol, pierced the nickel sized blisters and affixed special blister bandaids, allowing me to resume GO mode.
NYC Life: a learned skill.