I know you've been waiting for me to finish up those edits. You've been so very patient. And I know I'm meant to send you a scintillating blog entry, and you've been really patient about that too. You are a good, good person.
But there were these shoes, you see? These bone-and-gold, patent and haircalf, leopard print, Italian peeptoe shoes. The heel is so high it makes my foot look impossibly tiny and my instep almost fetishly arched. The inside is lined in the softest metallic leather. They make me feel fatale. They are the kind of shoes that change a girl: filter every look through a fringe of eyelash and coat every every phrase in a predatory purr.
I really meant not to buy them at all. They were expensive (even on sale) and not exactly what you'd call practical, so I had meant to come straight home and get to work. I am, after all, an adult.
But I couldn't stop thinking about them.
(Because I am not an adult. I clearly need supervision at all times.)
And because they cost so much and I couldn't think what I'd wear them with, I had to walk around the store for forty minutes, trying on seventeen other pair of shoes that would probably make more sense in my closet. I had to rule each of them out, systematically, methodically. I mean, I knew I didn't really want any of those other ones right from the start, but the process was very important and not to be abridged.
(When you're broke and procrastinating, sometimes it's necessary to work yourself into a frenzy of guilt and desire between racks of impractical shoes. It gets your mind off things.)
Now I am sitting at my computer, working like a good girl, my feet cradled in two very lovely, very ridiculous shoes.
I think we both know, there was nothing else I could have done.
g.
