MeSHOEggah

My husband, Toni and I attended our first EVER Jewish wedding last Saturday.  Mazel tov!

I know, right?   It IS kinda weird that in our 9 years of living in NY, we’ve only been to ONE so far.  New York being the Land of the (insanely rich) Jews (and I mean that in the best possible way), you’d think that we’d have attended at least 9 already!  But no, I mean, yeah, we were Jewish wedding, um, virgins.  But not anymore!  LOL.

Anyway, let me tell you, those Jews definitely know how to paaaar-tay!  In between courses, they would all dance up a storm.  They’d shake their boo-tays (and presumably, what their momma gave them) to anything from Hava Nagila to the late great, Michael Jackson’s Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough.

Toni and I, however, were nailed to our seats.  The dance floor was so full of yentas on hyperactive (stress on the “hyper”) drive and men sans yarmulkes (but avec white man’s overbite – LOL), we were left to groove in our seats.

That was all fine by me.  I was happy to be relegated to the chair.  I’m not much of a dancer anyway and I HAD HEELS ON.  The words “black tie” on the invite did not permit me to rebel and schlep around in my usual kicks – FLATS.

Like my friends, Tin and Grace, I’m too old for them sky-highs.  I am big on flats.  BIG.  But since the occasion called for my heels to make an appearance, wear them I did.  Thank GOD I didn’t rock the night away.  Had I done that, I would’ve been growing a bunion (or two) by now.  Oy vey!

I felt for those women though.  You could tell that after the band’s 5th set (and gamillionth Michael Jackson song), the pain was starting to kick in.  Maybe these would’ve come in handy:

They’re sold in the UK under two brands, Rollasole and afterheels.

Ballet flat vending machines.  Pretty nifty, eh?