We all own (if we're honest and do a proper count) at least eighty pairs. Confronted with this obscene number, we know... we KNOW that we should stay out of the shoe department on our next mall run. Yet still we wander over there ...just to 'look'.
We're not particularly depressed or in any need of retail therapy, but shoes are 'just soooo pretty!' And we're 'not going to buy anything, I swear!' So there we are, in the shoe department, (magically teleported if the stories are to be believed) with the hapless, vapid look of the hopeless addict thinly disguised on our face. The faked nonchalance and semi-bored expression, (to discourage sales reps), we've perfected...though the only person being fooled is ourselves.
My kryptonite is Michael Kors, sworn enemy of my debit card, my Macy's card and my boyfriend. I sidle up to the display and carelessly fondle the fulfillment of wishes while my heart leaps for absolute joy! Mind you...making sure to never break form or change expression. The sales reps smell blood in the water and at least three 'Is someone helping you, miss?’ are anxiously thrown my way. I deepen my sneer a bit, being careful not to alienate but just to show the proper amount of disinterest and politely ask for the 51/2. Before you can say 'Bob's your uncle', I'm embalmed in a chair with the '51/2 and the 6', just in case miss has underestimated the size of her hoof, I presume.
They're on! They're fabulous! I stand up gingerly like a new-born colt. I teeter a bit, but quickly adjust to the altitude and make my way over to the mirror. I love them! I'm flying high and feeling good, so I take the obligatory pic and send to my sister. She calls immediately and asks if I need them. "Need them?” I respond, "Are you on crack, no one needs these things! Are they hot or not?" She confirms their level of hotness, then grills me on the particulars...totally killing my buzz in the process. Then she renders her verdict...uh oh..."You don't need them, the heels are too high and you know you can't walk in them, take 'em off!" I sigh and try to rebut to no avail. I pout and whine but she is unshakeable. I hang up, promising to put them back.
In the time it takes me to take them off and put them in the box, I convince myself that they're really not THAT high, that walking in them will be a breeze if I take regular breaks, use a couple of Dr Scholl's insoles, practice and bring back up flip flops. Seeing the logic in my argument, I brightly respond "Yes!" when my sales rep asks if she can ring them up for me.
Once home, my sis calls again, "You bought them, didn't you?" I play dumb (not hard to do, obviously) but I'm smiling. I blather some nonsense but I'm thinking of how delightful they look on my feet. My inner pitchfork attendant whispers, "God's in heaven, Michael Kors is in your closet, and for the next few days, all is right with your universe". Don't know why it is but...aaahh...so true.
