Paris really is one of the fashion capitals of the world, and it’s more than evident when you stroll down the city streets at any time of day. French girls have mastered the stiletto heel. Holy five inches, Batman.
These chicks were walking past me (in my sensible and comfortable Toms or low-heeled knee boots) at alarming rates of speed, in literally some of the highest, most tiny-heeled pumps and platforms I have ever seen. And I live in Italy, where we dress for the Auchan as if we were going to a classy restaurant. Don’t even get me started on their complexions and flawless wine-colored lip stains. It must be a requirement that to live in certain areas of Paris, if you are between the ages of 18 and 30, you must appear to have walked straight out of the pages of Vogue magazine. It’s enough to make a girl feel more than a little inadequate, especially when she’s a good foot shorter than most of the French model-types, unable to walk in any shoes higher than three inches, and not even wearing lip stain.
However, I had one quite important thing going for me….
I was being escorted around by my hot hunk of a husband, who’d surprised me with a trip to Paris for Valentine’s Day, and who even presented me with diamonds once we’d arrived as if a minibreak wasn’t enough; who’d patiently talked me into coming out onto the top platform of the Eiffel Tower despite my fear of heights because I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t actually do it; who’d taken me almost an hour out of the way of anything just so I could get a photo of a scene on a canvas we have hanging at home; and who’d gotten drunk at the Hard Rock and flirted with me like we were teenagers. He doesn’t care if my lips aren’t perfectly pouty all the time, and he doesn’t care if I fall on my ass in heels unless I’m holding on to his arm for dear life. He’s pretty much awesome, and we had a lovely time.