It happened on the corner of Riggs st and R, when I found myself in the position that every cotton woven object dreads. The day started like any other - I was awoken abruptly by the pull of my drawer and exposed to the morning light shining through the window. The transition never gets easier. But morning light means the possibility of getting to come out of the drawer. It was a fitful night for all of us in the top left unit. The newest member to our drawer was having a mental breakdown. Real lacy looking gal. She was apparently from some boutique store in Alexandria where she was folded neatly and had never had to share space with non silk under garments. Pretentious, to say the least, but I've been around here long enough to know that everyone takes some time to get used to the place.
I don't get chosen everyday but I'm lucky enough to get picked at least once a week - usually on days that our keeper decided to wear boots. She grabbed me from the unit and slowly pulled the length of neck over her ankles. By the feeling of the hardwood floors beneath me, I could tell today would be a cold one. I watched as she tried to decide which boots would be joining us for the day. There were the black leather ones from Steve Madden, the over the knee gals that were gifted to her by an Ex that none of us really liked ( I've never met someone so careless in throwing undergarments to the side during intimate moment), and finally, my absolute favorites, the Doc Martens that she bought the same day she bought me. They always leave enough room for me to breathe and never once have I come home damp. But to my surprise, our keeper, stretching on her tip toes, reached up to grab a box i had never seen. Pulling back the wrapping paper I saw the highest heeled boots I had ever seen. A mesh woven material that looked very experimental for her. She dawned the boots and did a few practice walks in front of the mirror and I knew immediately that this would be a long day.
The boots, were also an Alexandria purchase. Much more down to earth than the lacy gal in the drawer but still had a certain air to them that didn't seem fitting for an article of clothing that would spend 90% of their time on the ground.
We stepped out into the brisk cold and haphazardly made our way down R st. Our keeper doesn't wear heeled shoes much, and while it may not be apparent to the rest of the world, the scrunched toes and chipped nail polish situation going on within me knows that we had maybe 30 minutes before we would be stopping to have a seat.
We were turning onto Riggs st. when it happened. Our keeper, too preoccupied with a handsome stranger across the street, stepped straight into an icy puddle causing us all to get soaked. The high heeled mesh boots proved to be the wrong choice for the occasion, and as we would later find out, were not looked at again for months. Every fiber of my being was in agony, wreathing in muggy water as my heeled counterparts complained about their grave misfortune. Luckily, our keeper was close enough to the house to go back and change but my day ended like a socks biggest nightmare: Cold, damp, and draped over a wooden chair.