I tend to be a fairly thrifty person, if frugal means something along the lines of “I will give anyone money for an extended loan, I will splurge on something for someone else, but I do not buy things for myself unless I absolutely have to.” I also happen to have not very trendy taste in shoes. I think my shoe sense got caught in the ’80s somewhere, back with the white keds and ballet flats, flats because I do not wear heels. I think I last bought heels for my wedding, which was in 1996. In any case, I hate going shoe shopping because it violates both of those sensibilities, and probably several others as well.
Since my work uniform is khakis & a solid color shirt (assigned by day of the week, heaven forfend I should get my days confused and wear the wrong shirt, because the whole office would probably be thrown off and go out drinking when it was only Thursday), I purchase a comfortable pair of brown shoes, usually sneakers, to wear. Really, I just hope to catch the issue of Glamour in which I am featured with one of those black bars across my face. Since I wear those shoes every day, they show some wear. And since I hate to shoe shop, they get to the point of near tatters before being put down. Over the last several weeks, “shoe shopping” has crept onto my To Do List, but there were more important things to do, like fawn over Joshilyn Jackson at the Decatur Arts Festival, or stalk Mir, or hey! start blogging again. But tonight, after a kidfree meal with my dad and sister, she and I went shoe shopping. And there we made mischief, of one kind and another.
I found the brown comfortable shoes. Then my sister found some sandals which don’t have the flip flop thing that goes between your toes. I can’t wear things between my toes. They hurt me. And you can’t find sandals without the things between your toes, I have tried. For several years, I have tried, as the sandals I last found have slowly disintegrated into a pile of leather, fabric and toe jam. I think those shoes are older than The Dude. So, when my sister found some, I bought two pairs, one in brown, one in black. That’s how I roll: basic neutrals. They go with anything, you know.
And then, on the clearance rack, I saw them.
The sparkles caught both pairs of our eyes. As one, we were pulled into the vortex of sparkly fuchsia, or is that purple, or is it just bright pink? And the height of the heels. . .I didn’t measure, but those suckers are six inches of stiletto, or I’m buying the next round. Really, just looking at them made my knees hurt. There was no way I was putting them on.
But. . .
But they had sucked me into their gravity well, and resistance is futile and all that. Plus they were on the clearance rack! I had picked them up before I knew it, ostensibly to mock them–because that’s what I do to shoes, I mock them–and somehow they ended up on my feet.
And SOMEHOW I managed not to tip over onto my face because they cantilevered me into this horrible posture and after a few minutes I felt comfortable enough to put one foot in front of the other. And soon, I was walking across the floor. . .one foot in front of the other, and soon I was walking out the door. Seriously.
I came home with 4 pairs of shoes, one of which is a sparkly hot pink purpley pair with 6″ heels. And no, I don’t have anything to wear with those shoes. Do you have any suggestions?
(Note: honesty demands I admit that the heels are only 4″ high, but 4″ is still 3.5″ higher than my next tallest pair of heels.)