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Never Fall Hard On The First Date

Francesca Ayala |
October 1, 2009 | 4:28 p.m. PDT

Staff Reporter

Sometimes the right pair of heels can make or break a date.
(Photo by Francesca Ayala)

Halfway through my summer in Hong Kong, I realized it had been a whole month since I'd put on a pair of heels. In an attempt to pack lightly enough to accommodate my shopaholic tendencies, I did not take a single pair of high heels with me. Since I would be working all summer in a walking city, I didn't think it would be too practical to burden my suitcase and my feet with clunky dancing shoes. That said, after four weeks of running around in ballet flats and sandals, an occasion finally arose for me to purchase a pair of dressy heels: I got asked out on a date.

The Kid, as I'll call him, was six years younger than me. He was an economics major at a very expensive and prestigious east coast school (although I'll say that despite several claims, our J-school program is far superior) and like me, was also spending his summer interning in Hong Kong. We met one night through a mutual friend who worked with my roommate, Irma, at a local entertainment magazine. A few weeks and several flirtatious emails later, he asked me to meet him at the beer festival in Lan Kwai Fong, a popular party district for expatriates in Hong Kong.

I was thrilled up until the point that I realized that I had absolutely nothing to wear. I realize that this is an overstatement most girls tend to make when they cannot decide on an outfit, but I literally had nothing to wear. Well, I had nothing to wear on a date. Case in point: On the night I met The Kid, I was wearing a black dress that I borrowed from Irma. I dug through my suitcase, desperate to find anything that could dress me up as a much more attractive version of myself, just to realize that I had only packed office-appropriate attire, flats, jeans and sneakers. That was it, I decided. It was time to go shopping.

I had a dinner that evening with my fellow Annenberg interns and decided to squeeze in an emergency shopping trip prior to the engagement. I left my frumpy and casual clothes in rumpled piles on my bedroom floor, rushed to the IFC mall in Hong Kong's central district and made a beeline to Zara, the mothership of all fabulous ready-to-wear franchises. I've frequented Zara stores all over the world since I was sixteen and not once have I felt buyer's remorse over a purchase. Hence, I figured a stop at the IFC branch would be the fastest way to make my Hong Kong wardrobe go from Ugly Betty to Betty Boop. I was right.

As I entered my shopping Mecca, my eyes immediately locked with a pair of black heels on the shelves right by the fitting rooms. They were three-inches tall and had thick, black straps criss-crossed from the front and zipped together at the back. Right away, I kicked off my beat-up office flats, tried on the shoes and marched around the store in an impromptu test drive. They made my legs look great and they didn't hurt at all. The Zara shoes were, by my high heel standards, absolutely perfect.

I decided to pair my new shoes with an animal print stretch cotton mini-dress that I grabbed off the sale rack. Back at the apartment later that night, I asked Irma for her opinion on the ensemble. I knew that if people asked my roommate for brutal honesty, she would serve it to them straight up. Thankfully, she gave the outfit (and especially the shoes) her two thumbs up.

Date night finally rolled around and I was prepared to conquer. As I hiked up the steep hill to Lan Kwai Fong and wove through the streets, congested with drunken denizens, beer booths and food stalls, I felt totally unstoppable. I hadn't worn heels in ages and it was amazing how adding those three extra inches to my height gave an astronomical boost to my confidence.

The Kid and I had arranged to meet at one of the bars so I waited for him there. He arrived late, but I didn't care. It had been a while since I'd gone on a proper date and that night, I was dressed and determined to impress.

It started to drizzle but we decided to brave the stumbling, intoxicated masses crammed into the streets of Lan Kwai Fong to explore the several booths that had been set up for the weekend. An event photographer stopped me and asked if he could take my photograph. I hadn't felt attractive in ages, so I was elated.

My ego was so inflated that it began to show in my strut. I was proud to rock such a bangin' outfit on a Saturday night with a new pair of heels and a hot, young guy. This date couldn't get any better, I thought to myself. God, he's really cute. I looked over at The Kid and smiled. He smiled back. That was when I fell.

No, I didn't fall for him.

I literally slipped, as we were walking down the hill, and fell down. On my knees. Mortified that I was going to face plant, my automatic reaction was to put my hands out in front of me. My dress hiked up as I tripped and I could feel my right knee scrape itself raw against the damp, concrete incline. So there I was on a Saturday night, on all fours in the crowded district of Lan Kwai Fong, feeling totally exposed (literally and figuratively) and trying not to cry. Utterly embarrassed, I looked up at The Kid in the hopes that an urge for chivalry would kick in and he would help me up, or at least ask if I was okay.

Instead, he took one look at me and burst out laughing.

"You are so f***ing ridiculous!" He guffawed.

I stopped returning his calls and emails after that night and shortly after, started seeing someone else.

I still wear my Zara heels as often as I can. I'm proud to say that I haven't fallen once since that first night. The scar on my right knee is a perfect reminder for me to watch my step.



 

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