Lessons learned at the Classic

Oftentimes we learn life lessons when we least expect them.
Take the fall of my senior year in high school, for example. I was a wee lass of 17, and my parents were allowing me to attend my first Bayou Classic without them. Ten of my closest friends and I piled into two cars and drove to New Orleans early on Friday morning to beat the traffic, and to have an excuse to be “grown” while in The City. We were seniors in high school, know it all geniuses who had suitcases full of cute, pointy shoes, and no sense of direction other than ‘that way’ was where the game was.
After nearly crashing into each other’s cars while trying to prove driving know-how, we turned down every one way street in downtown New Orleans (the wrong way) eventually finding our hotel, a nice middle ground between the Dome and the Most Awesome Street During Classic Weekend. (Bourbon, people. Follow me.)
The gals and I weren’t Classic weekend savvy, so we mistakenly didn’t pre-purchase our Battle of the Bands tickets, and were forced to wait in the long lines with the other saps who hadn’t bought the general admission tickets. Needless to say, we didn’t get in our nosebleed seats until the bands were battling each other.
After returning to our hotel to change into our going out clothes (read: teen attire. Tight, short, thin. Oh, and shoes. The shoes will be very important in a minute), we were collectively hungry, and ventured down Canal Street when Popeye’s and McDonald’s were in full effect.
The Great Pilgrimage began at the corner of Bourbon and Canal Streets, where the 10 of us walked single file behind each other while grabbing the thin swatches of fabric of the girl in front of us or, in some cases, bare backs. We were about three blocks into Bourbon when the first complaint of broken glass, puke and pain began drifting the wind.
Feet were starting to hurt left and right, and the thought of returning to the hotel to exchange one pair of cute, pointy painful heels for another pair of cute, pointy heels didn’t seem logical, nor did the lack of foresight for a pair of comfortable walking shoes.
After breaking the line several times to preserve our own lives while avoiding punches, bullets and horses, we hobbled back to our rooms, disappointed in our poor wardrobe choices.
That night, I learned an important lesson in Bayou Classic etiquette: you can be cute if you want to, but your feet will be murder after 13.5 minutes.
So, as I prepare to pack my last undergraduate suitcase headed to New Orleans to watch my beloved Jaguars beat Grambling, I’m making sure my trusty black running shoes are in there next to the cute top—because at the end of the day, it isn’t all about the shoe; it’s about outrunning the crowd and the bullet that sent them running full speed towards you.