24h in heels: "In the office, my arrival causes a riot"

8:27: I put on my divine ball shoes, whose height would shame the Eiffel Tower. The emotion overwhelms me: my legs suddenly lost 5 kg each.

8:34 am: I finally managed to cross my living room. The emotion overwhelms me again, but it is because my uncertain approach reminds me of the first steps of Bambi. My tendency to great energetic strides is suddenly checked: in order to remain dignified, one has to make small and regular steps. I suddenly understand why women in stilettos have this sort of indolent class: they have no choice. A myth collapses.

8h41: I live in an old building with a wooden staircase. So my neighbors are delighted to hear that I'm going to work, and that this morning I did not seem to put my Convers. This descent of floors on half-pointed arches lightly panic my calves, but they will do it. As I like the challenges, I take my scooter and I make a lot of friends: not a single man (not one) who does not squinch on my legs, as if a pair of red stiletto heels was a kind of code meaning : "What if we were going to do some sex before work, you and me? One of them stood in the middle of the Place de l'Etoile. Another fetishist.

9:20 am: In the office, my arrival causes a riot. As I walk through the cafeteria, my colleagues are squealing hamsters under methamphetamine. They want to try them. I refuse: a shoe does not lend itself, it is done at the foot of his mistress.

10:17 am: I call Marcello, my mechanic, to know how to put my two-wheeler on his crutch without scraping a priceless high-heeled shoe, or take me back seven times, or do me a bad dog. It is in vain to go around the workshop, nobody seems to have precise answer. It's really outrageous.

11:17: After a dozen hard back and forth on the stairs (God bless the ramps!), I start to blame my Ferrari pedestrians. In Italian, the stiletto is a very sharp dagger. All true passion involves a little violence.

24 hours in heels: "Tomorrow is flat boots!"

13:24: The breakfast brasserie is far, far away. I understand why the girls of "Sex & The City", still perched, make living New York taxis so well. I have an appointment with an obscure writer met this weekend, as intellectual as prudish (it changes me). When I arrive, it is beautiful, leaning on its future prize Medicis Essay, admirably titled "The Stoic Ambiguities among the Lazarists of Haut Poitou". When his eyes land on my feet, they pass into a nanosecond of the innocence of Mickey Mouse to the lust of Mickey Rourke (era "9 weeks 1/2"). But it is when he asks the waiter if the house rents rooms that I ask myself real questions about the message sent by my little shoes.

17:45: The carpet in my office is deliciously soft under my bare feet, who sigh with ease. It seems that some Americans are making collagen injections in the heels or a toe ablation to enter into Jimmy Choo . That leaves you dreamy.

19:40: As I am malignant, I chose to wear my stilts one day of vernissage. This kind of event where there are hours to trample. Consolation: with my 1.82 m, I quietly admire works over the crowd of dwarfs. Hey ! Hey ! I laugh less when my heel gets caught in a groove of the floor and I am obliged to take off my shoes to remove it without damaging it, a cut of field 'by hand.

23h41: Journey of the exhibition to the restaurant. Staircase (spiral, it's more nice) toilets of the restaurant. Journey from the restaurant to the house, via the gas station. Reduced stairs because I forgot the mail. And at bedtime, surprise: the weapons of crime are always at my feet. I galloped like a gazelle on these works of art without even thinking about it: call me Dita von Teese. How is it all a matter of habit? But out of respect for the poor men whom I shall meet, tomorrow is flat boots. We must not abuse the good things.