Dear Women Who Insist on Commuting in Their Heels:
I'm sorry but I hate you. I realize it's your prerogative to wear high-ass heels wherever the hell you want to but New Yorkers are walking 10% faster than a decade ago and, honestly, if you can't keep up in your Jimmy Choo knockoffs, then don't bother wearing them on the streets of Manhattan. I don't care how tall or well put together you look as you teeter painfully in front of me. No one gives a crap. What New Yorkers do care about is being stuck on a staircase behind your dumb, vain ass, as the trains we were hoping to catch slowly slip away.
You are self-centered and, clearly, you're also a fool for compromising your entire musculoskeletal health. You've messed with my schedule way too many times, you Imelda-freakin'-Marcos of Gotham. A couple of years ago, I watched one of your spike-heeled sisters tumble on a I-stow-my-lovely-heels-in-my-handbag-and-walk-in-sensible-flats-because-I'm-not-a-wanker lady. Bastards. All of you. Forget terrorists. We should be reporting sightings of you on the subway.
Yes, I also happen to be a I-stow-my-lovely-heels-in-my-handbag-and-walk-in-sensible-flats-because-I'm-not-a-wanker lady. However, I confess that several years ago, I also terrorized Manhattanites with my naivete: I wore all varieties of heels during my commutes. Stilettos, three-inch pumps, those crazy platforms that were all the rage in the early 2000s...you name it, I wore it. I'm telling you this because if I could change, so can you. There is hope, you Carrie Bradshaws. There is hope.
ps: The carrot post below was in no way intended to be pornographic. Now that it has entered that realm of smut, um, well, apologies for offending those of you with delicate sensibilities and you're welcome to my readers who are all viva la pornografia.