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Since I've already ruined the ending let's start from the beginning when I purchased what I still believe are The Best Shoes Ever: Patent leather ballet flats (worn at almost every holiday party I've attended in the five years since purchasing because they are perfect) from Stuart Weitzman for a price that at the time I laughed off since it was my parent's card anyway but then I realized that money doesn't come from the heavens and replenish my wallet each day so then I cringed when I remembered the price. Now I appreciate them for the magnificent pieces of footwear that they are.
They weren't an 'investment piece' they were a 'material piece' and I have a strange Pavlovian reaction to size 11 shoes: I see them and I start to salivate AND my credit card magically falls out of my pocket. But they really are the perfect shoes for dressing up an outfit but doing so comfortably. Which is what I was unaware of when I first purchased them. I thought they were dainty and adorable and so very girly but I didn't realize how very functional they were until I encountered The Worst Shoes Ever(!!!)
I'm a flats girl. I like to feel well connected to the ground and know that if I happen to trip over an imaginary crack and bust my head open, that it's my own dumb fault and not because I fell off of a heel. Falling off of a high heel is one of my greatest fears next to clowns. Every time I put a pair of extremely high heels on I say a little prayer as I start to strut in hopes that some deity above takes pity on me and I don't bust my ass (pardon my language) down a flight of stairs. So far, so good.
My super fancy, gettin' dressy shoes happen to be peep toe stilettos. They're hot and perfect for getting all dolled up for special events and for holiday parties past, present and future but my God. They are the worst shoes I've ever owned in my life. I'm down with being stylish but you know what makes one unstylish? Limping. Grimacing. Gripping the table and taking deep breaths while sweating because your shoes are causing you to lose feeling in your toes. Those things are all unattractive.
Last February I was going to a a super fancy event where I needed to wear The Super High Stilettos of Death. I had parked at the next block and went to the another event across the street for a cocktail hour and then to a VIP reception and then to dinner. And suprisingly enough, even after all of the trekking on marble floors, I still felt OK. So I was able to walk down to dinner and then go from table to table saying my hellos and started to feel the tightness and the aching. By the end of the evening I had had enough and was ready to remove The Super High Stilettos of Death and I headed to my car to put on The Best Shoes Ever. Of course when I got outside is was sleeting and there was ice on the ground. I had to make an executive decision. Should I a) Wait for the rain to stop since I didn't have an umbrella and my hair was all done up, b) run to the car in The Super High Stilettos of Death across city streets and large patches of ice thus risking my life or c) run barefoot down the streets of Upstate NY in February and then worship The Best Shoes Ever when I got to them.
I ended up choosing C. I ran down the snow covered block with my coat covering my hair and my shoes in my hand and no less than four times did someone pull over to roll down their window and inquire about my mental state and/or whether or not I needed a ride to my car.
I got to my car and found The Best Shoes Ever. The shoes that would go perfect with any outfit and could be dressy - not super dressy - but dressy enough for the occassion. They were the shoes that saved my poor toes and saved me from shoes that actually made me cry. When I got to the next event, people kept admiring my change in footwear and commending me for actually changing because they were all uncomfortable and had
