I survived Icepocalypse 2014. But had it not been for the random pair of six-inch acrylic platform heels in the back seat of my car, I might still be in the frozen confines of my driveway.
I live in the south for many reason, one namely the weather. I fucking hate cold. Strong word, but that’s how I really feel about the mercury dropping below 50. Fortunately, north Louisiana winters are typically mild. I can count on one hand how many days it dips below 30 in the two-month cold season.
Until this year. And of course, there had to be a little sleet and freezing rain mixed in with 20-degree temperatures. Shut the whole damn parish down.
School kids (and every person with a normal day job) were all “Yippee!!!” on Wednesday. For a reporter, it’s also “Yippee!!!” because weather is the easiest thing to write about and for some reason, people love to read about it.
But then it’s also a little FML because while everyone else was out enjoying the free day from school and work, I was bundling up in two hoodies, rubber boots and all of the other winter wear that northerners make into fashion statements.
Upon awakening to the slippery mess, I did the pajama run outside and cranked my car to allow adequate time for defrost. I got ready and miserably tromped outside to begin the treacherous drive to my office.
Except my wipers were buried under thick chunks of ice, unable to wipe away the water from the defrosted windshield.
I’ve been a reporter way too long, which means I essentially live in my car and am prepared to be stuck in any situation. If I’m hungry, there’s a protein bar in the console. Thirsty? There’s a bottle of water under the front seat. Sleepy? There’s a 5-Hour Energy in the door. Stuck standing on the side of an interstate at a crash? There’s a reflective vest. Don’t like my music? Have some headphones. Got caught in a monsoon? There’s a change of clothes.
You get the idea.
But there was NOT an ice scraper to be found. However, there was a pair of stilettos. And not just a nice pair of black slingbacks for an impromptu interview with a public official. No, these are a little more risque’ – six-inches tall, clear platform with iridescent straps going up the calf.
I know the obvious question, and sorry to disappoint anyone, but no. I do not moonlight as a stripper. I just have a shoe obsession and the ability to walk gracefully in sky-high heels.
I grabbed the shoe and began to chisel away at the frozen chunks holding my wipers captive. And I’ll be damned, it worked. And I didn’t break the windshield or the wipers.
I’ll take a stripper shoe for the win, Alex.