Of cockroaches and heels: balancing vanity with practicality.

Two events this week have highlighted things that I already knew about myself but had forgotten. One: If given the choice between comfort and vanity accompanied by intense pain, comfort wins. Two: While I express great love for the animal kingdom and often cry when people squash innocent arthropods, I will jump at the chance to brutally murder a cockroach.

This past weekend when I was in Paratí, I did something I had been meaning to do for a while: Buy a pair of shoes in Brazil that a Brazilian woman might wear. Those of you who know me well know that I have a bit of a shoe fetish, though this is usually manifested in me buying multiple pairs of comfortable, practical shoes which I have absolutely no need for. My own mother affectionately (I think) refers to me ocassionally as 'Imelda', in reference to one Imelda Marcos, who apparently was infamous for her collection of shoes, among other things. Consider this an element of personal vanity (or personal flaw, depending on how guilty I am feeling) that is inherently inconsistent with my quality Brethren upbringing emphasizing the simple life.

So, after carefully considering the offerings of this particular shoe store, I settled upon a not-too-expensive pair of heels that resembled something that I might have imagined Pocahontas would select at a Payless—with a soft leather moccasin styling, accented by a short, inoffensive looking heel. Remove the heel and I could fairly picture myself chasing a deer with a bow and arrow in these shoes.

My imaginings of comfort aside, I was determined to try to do what it seems every Brazilian woman is capable of doing: wearing a pair of heels for a full day as if it is the natural thing to do. So, on Monday, I nonchalantly threw on my new pair of heels with my jeans, feeling effortlessly chic.

The treacherous sidewalks and rolling terrain of the first part of my walk to the university were navigated with ease, and as I enter the university gate, I am still thinking: “I can do this. This is not so bad.” 200 m and one steep downhill later, I have sorrowfully realized that I have blisters forming on my heels. And my usual peaceful facial expression that characterizes my walk to school has been replaced by a look of stalwart determination. By the time I sit down at a desk, all I can think about is taking them off. And, for the rest of the morning, I am dreading the walk home.

No sooner have I left the building in the middle of the afternoon to go to the bank then I realize that I would rather die than walk home in these heels. That I would prefer to sleep on the cold, tiled floor of the remote sensing lab, or on a bench outside. So, in an act of abandon, I fling my heels off and walk, barefoot, all the way to the bank. Replace heels to look like a normal person while standing in bank line. Remove heels outside bank. Walk home, carefully avoiding small glass splinters on pavement. My feet, they were thanking me for sacrificing my vanity. The Brazilian women—they definitely just thought I was a wimp.

As for cockroaches? Monday evening I am pouring a glass of wine, and I hear my housemate scream. I rush into her room where she is pointing at her bed: at first I think she is dismayed that she has left her bed unmade. Then, I see the little beast emerge from under her bed. She proceeds to hop on the bed and start chattering about how it’s now in her shoe. I quickly grab the shoe and proceed to smash all of the inner workings of the cockroach onto her floor. She, meanwhile, has her fingers in her ears to avoid the crunching noises. I feel strangely satisfied; perhaps this is the rush a medieval knight would have experienced after slaying a dragon.

Or, maybe I just secretly despise cockroaches---yes, I find that my love for arthropods does not extend to these strangely sinister creatures that scuttle to hide in the darkest and most vile of places when you turn on the light; as if they are aware that their sole purpose in life is to perpetuate bacterial diseases and frighten women. So, last night, when provided the opportunity to murder another one in my bathroom, I stepped up to the task. This time, with the handy bottle of Lysol sitting on my sink. First, I douse him well as he scuttles into the drain, thinking, “well, that at least will make him unhappy.” It does…he reemerges and I nail him again. In an act of surrender, he rolls onto his back while I spray him mercilessly until his little legs stop moving and he stops struggling. I cackle gleefully—how uncharacteristically morbid of me.

I have spared you the pictures of my impressive blisters, raw toes, and the dead cockroach on my bathroom tile. I did not think you would mind so much.