It's not exceptionally long; just about 3.6km, thanks to Gmaps Pedometer. It was refreshing to get up close and personal to the sights and sounds of Singapore that I usually experience through greasy, smeary bus windows. All orifices remain intact, even though I walked through an almost exclusively all-male zone, and dressed like rape bait.
I would have walked the remaining kilometre home, if it weren't for the blisters on my feet. Although I was perspiring from the muggy night air, I'm no stranger to humidity and was exceedingly thankful for the eyebrow-skimming fringe that doesn't require constant sweeping. My empire-cut dress was light and breezy, and I carried little in my oversized bag. It would have been perfect conditions for an urban trek.
I borrowed my sister's gold flats for the day: I needed a pair of gold shoes to complete my ensemble (I must always have an accompanying colour on me, e.g. I was wearing a blue dress, had on blue earrings, wore a silver ring, had a gold and silver watch, carried a gold bag - must wear gold shoes. Every colour must have a partner, unless it's a neutral like black, white, khaki, or denim.) and I didn't think my gold shoes were feminine enough for the look. My feet are a size larger than my sister's, but I thought the shoes fitted fine when I slipped them on. Less than an hour later I already felt blisters forming, but since I am ever prepared I stuck on the plasters that I always keep handy in my wallet.
When I embarked on my trek, I was tempted several times to simply stop at one of the bus stops and catch a bus home. After all, I was following the exact route that my bus takes, and it would take little to hop on to a bus. But I gritted my teeth and bore the pain, and walked on. At about Boon Keng, the pain got quite unbearable, but I still refused to enjoy readily-available modern conveniences. Instead, I popped into Watsons and 7-Eleven, hoping they'd have flip-flops, but no, they didn't, and I trudged on wearily.
I was practically limping at 200m before my end point, and in the midst of figuring out how to cross the 5-lane road that wasn't very pedestrian-friendly, I gave a little inward sigh of defeat and decided to give up. I was tired, physically and mentally, I was in great pain - it's a wonder how such minor perforations in the epidermis can result in pain that resonates within the entire body - the grease and sweat on my skin bothered me, I needed a shower pronto, I just watched a movie that I wouldn't have opted to watch if it weren't for the company I was with (The movie was Igor; I realise I only watch cartoons - I refuse to call them animations - with company, cartoons are not something I'd voluntarily watch.), and running all these through my head basically dissolved any dregs of willpower I had.
Until I was home, I had yet to inspect the condition of my feet. I know that looking at the injuries that I had sustained will only eat my determination, since the visual horror will only serve to exacerbate the physical discomfort. I did want to walk all the way back home, just so I can say that I walked from Orchard to my house, though I know that's not a formindable impossible sort of feat. That's one of the best way to deal with painful shoes, in my opinion. Don't look at your blisters. And I am glad that I didn't, because the sight that beheld me was gross:
My pitiful plasters gave up, obviously. Sometimes I don't even know why I bother with plasters, because plasters NEVER stick. Not even the funky and pricey jelly-like ones meant for blisters. The best solution I have is masking tape, but that's more of a preventive measure. I sustained a few blisters on my heels, and one each on the bunionettes that I know will be fully-fledged bone protrusions in about a decade. And oh, the circled broken blisters in the upper left picture wasn't caused by the gold pumps, it was caused by another pair of shoes. Sigh, I don't even know why I live in such agony. The raw flesh hurts like a bitch when I shower. I have this vague notion that being in pain expends more calories than not being in pain. Hmm. Could it be because I hiss so much in agony? You know, that kind of agonised hiss, with teeth clenched and tongue touching teeth.
I had a little incident that could be potentially crafted into a beautifully-worded vignette. I'm getting inspired because I'm reading American Wife, Curtis Sittenfeld's third novel. When I'm done with it, I will be proud to say that I've read all her novels - though that's not hard, of course. I am very drawn to books that have words like these on the back: poignant, truthful, psychological, self-conscious, sensitive, wry, subtleties, satirical etc. I used to read blurbs: then I realised that they are disguises for what could potentially be a mediocre piece of writing. It's so easy to write a snappy, attention-grabbing blurb. But sometimes an interesting plot is ruined by ineffective narrative. I now scan the reviews for words like those I listed above.
I shouldn't be worrying but I'm worrying about my results. This is so debilitating.
P.S. I am surprised that there are people who are ignorant about the amount of salary that maids in Singapore get. In spite of - or because of - having a maid at home, some people still don't know how much they earn! And some people (I'm not trying to pinpoint anybody, although "some people" sounds very accusatory. The stress on "some" does not refer to the ignorant people I was interacting with, but indicates my shock at the possibility that a group of my peers are still so blissfully ignorant. That's where the stress goes: that people on the cusp of 20 can still be so clueless.) actually think that maids earn anywhere from $800 to $1000. Even taking into consideration their ignorance, that's quite a sum of money considering that maids get "free" lodging and food. To enlighten anybody who still does not know the pittance that maids have to slog to earn, they get an average of $300 for Filipino maids and lower for Indonesians, if I'm not mistaken.
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