Last evening, I spun myself on a stair near the bottom to leap to the next, and, in landing, weighed on my high heel at the edge of the first step rather than the center of the next and fell straight to the close floor.

A group of three friends, who were awaiting my arrival in the living room before our departure, gasped in alarm and chorused, “Are you okay?” and, as they swiftly approached one of them began to extend her hand and demanded, “Nahida take off those shoes.”

“No!” I exclaimed with enthused willfulness as I leapt to my feet (without her aid.) “They’re pretty.”

“Yes, Nahida, you look very attractive when you’re falling on your ribcage.”

“Don’t I look dashing… to the ground,” I grinned.

“Maybe the problem isn’t your shoes, but your dancing?” another suggested innocently.

I stared at her, affronted. “It’s definitely the shoes.”

And then, lifting my nose at the undeserved insult, added jokingly, “I would prove it with practical footwear, but I am much too pretty.” In proceeding to move forward, I took a step and nearly a fall for my vanity.

“Or I can change them and amaze you all with my elegant dancing,” I proposed, grasping the couch.