High Heel Race: Missed


In a sad note on how much my DC experience has changed in the past few years, I missed tonights High Hell Race in Dupont Circle.

Instead of cheering for the Bubble Wrap Queen or even Princess Diana, I was off at work, then working on my house, even sober at that.

I have to say, I don’t miss the High Heel crowds, the pressing masses that in past years were also the soaking wet hordes who pushed and shoved for a glimpse of glitter. Worse, when I worked at Trios Restaurant, I hated High Heel night.

The place would be packed, with everybody antsy to get their food and drinks, all to be tossed when the race started. Much work, little tips. The only highlight came later, when racers would stop by and tell great tales.

I’ve never run in stilettos and yet I’ve learned from great men that you never walk on metal grates and always make a turn on the toe. Also, Nordstrom has extra wide shoes and Zappos has free shipping, perfect when you’re off the shoe charts.

Hopefully tonight a new generation learned something from men in lace hauling ass.

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs

Married, mortgaged, and soon to be a father, Wayan Vota is in the fast lane to mid-life respectability – until the day his brood finds his intimate journal of global traveling and curses him with the ever-eternal reply “I’m gonna be just like you, Dad!”

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