I'm guilty. I bet you're guilty too. Lately, it seems I've been doing stupid things, even though I know better. What is it about me that makes it so hard for me to learn my lesson? I know I'm smart, but sometimes I genuinely question that line of thinking.
This errant decision making affects all areas of my life, but today I can't quit thinking about me and shoes and the trouble I allow them to create. I love shoes. I am a shoe fanatic, although I'm too cheap and practical to truly indulge my passion.
Last winter, with exciting girls' trips and concerts in mind, I bought the most exquisite pair of black pumps. Even though they were on sale, I spent more than I'd ever spent on shoes. Although it was love at first sight, I didn't buy them on first encounter. I tried them on, walked through the store, stopped, turned, admired the beauty of them. I left telling myself that while they were amazing, I could find black pumps anywhere. Later that day, I found myself talking non stop to my friends and husband about the shoes. I googled them and compared prices elsewhere online. I imagined how sexy I would look in them. Essentially, the shoes consumed me.
The next morning, as soon as the store opened, I drove straight there and bought the shoes. Without one ounce of buyer's remorse, I brought my designer shoes home with a smile on my face and a dent in my pocketbook. I loved the "new shoe" smell, the suppleness of the leather, the line of the stiletto heel.
Even though they'd seemed to be the most comfortable heels I'd ever tried on when I was in the store, I decided I needed to wear them around the house before my trip so I could get used to them. Two passes through the bedroom and I realized these shoes were not any more comfortable than any other pair of heels I had ever owned.
Deep down, I knew they would give me trouble, but, I reasoned, how could something so beautiful be so hard? It baffles me that I could even ask that question after having children, but, I digress.
As I headed out of town, with my beauties packed carefully inside my bursting suitcase, I imagined how wonderful it would be to walk into a room in these heels. One friend called them my "F*ck me" pumps, and while I would never have coined that term myself, I truly couldn't disagree.
The big night arrived and I got dressed and put on the shoes. By the time I left my hotel room and got one block down the street, my feet were screaming in pain. I looked at the time on my cell phone and realized I had another six hours left in these "beautiful and amazing" shoes.
Walking in heels is never an easy feat for me, but imagine my feelings of betrayal as I struggled to move with composure and grace across a crowded room. I suffered through the pre-concert party, hobbled into the venue, found my seat and took the shoes off for a bit of respite.
During the concert, I alternated between heels being on and off. Admittedly, I love the height the shoes add, but the pain was relentless. As the show ended, I calculated the distance we had to walk to get back to our car and said...'forget it!" Off came the shoes and in an instant, I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk feeling trashy and dirty. But, my beaten and bruised bare feet loved me for it. Stepping on glass shards or discarded gum was favorable to having to walk in the heels. The shoes had "f*cked me" alright. I swore, then and there, that I would never wear those shoes again.
Apparently, some promises are made and then forgotten and I found the shoes on my feet again a few weeks ago. Picture wobbly walking, cobblestone streets, a dark, cold, night and no option for going hillbilly. Hailing a cab never seemed a better idea!
A wise friend of mine brilliantly pointed out that my time with those shoes had come and gone and that I needed to say goodbye. I couldn't agree more. I will bid a fond farewell to them very soon. I truly believe I have learned my lesson.
Just yesterday though, I wore flip flops to the rodeo. As we trudged through the livestock barn, walked though the sticky, dirty carnival, and then traipsed through the dirt in the parking lot, I swore I would never wear flip flops to the rodeo again. Right.
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