I found the solution to all my problems today. I unwittingly entered a little boutique when a choir of angels started to sing. There, in the corner, a gorgeous pile of shoeboxes. On top of those shoeboxes—oh my, my, my, my—shoes like I’ve never seen! And I’m not even a “shoe” person. But these shoes were calling my name. “Marci,” they whispered, “Come slide your tired feet into us. We’ll instantly uplift you.” What could I do but their bidding? I walked over there trance-like and stepped out of my battered faded sandals. “Ahhhh,” I said to myself like I had just bitten into vanilla crème brulee. These shoes were a combination of a confectioner’s dream—all sugar and chocolate and whipped cream. Velvet, silk, tweed, furry roses…mmmmm, I couldn’t decide which was most beautiful. I wanted to coo at them like I would a kitten, “Oh my, you are the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen!” I’d say, caressing their orgasmic textures. “Would you like to come home with me? I have the perfect space for you in my closet.” Then I would kiss them on the nose before slipping them on my feet. These shoes were so beautiful I would even put a painting of them on my bedroom wall so I could lie in bed and adore them. Which is exactly what I would do if I bought them. I would lie in bed with my feet in the air and stare at them in adulation. I wouldn’t get a whole lot done, and I wouldn’t be able to walk because I wouldn’t want to get them dirty, but c’est la vie! Such is life when you own the ultimate pair of shoes!
These shoes would change everything. My husband and I would never fight because he’d be too awestruck by the beauty of my feet. I would have to walk slowly in them—they are heels—so my two-year-old daughter would have all the time in the world to participate in her favorite activity of picking every flower we walk by from her stroller. They would probably even entrance my ten-month-old son so he would no longer feel the urge to throw his bowl of blueberry applesauce in just the right spot so it splashes all over my cream linen pants. I could burn my favorite oufit—my sweats—and buy spiffy little outfits for every day of the week. I could add my flannel pajamas to the bonfire and buy a frothy little peignoir set, ala Doris Day in “Pillow Talk.” Can’t you just see me talking on my pink rotary phone to Rock Hudson while gazing adoringly at my feet, which would be draped nonchalantly over the arm of the couch? And they would be perfect with a pair of capris. I can see myself calling in all my guests for lunch at my villa on the Riviera. “Darlings! Come up! I’ve just opened a bottle of Cristal.” After everyone had sat down and lifted their glasses I would say, “Here’s to my shoes. May you forever caress my feet like a lover.”
What genius designed these shoes? What madman said, “Today I will make a masterpiece that will forever change the life of ladies?” I might even have to change the way I bathe because I would never want to take them off! Picture this: my feet encased in these shoes emerging from a giant oyster shell while a sexy trumpet plays a New Orleans tease? I wouldn’t even have to come all the way out, it would be enough for you just to watch my shoes. Wah,wah,wah goes the horn, kick-kick-kick go my shoes. If I wanted to get fancy I could balance a large pearl on my feet, but really, why ruin the line of the real star, my shoes?
The only problem was deciding which color. Candy pink stripes with polka dots and a Marie Antoinette toe for those days I’m feeling like a sassy explosion of mouth-watering creole cream cheese and strawberries? Or chocolate and emerald for those oh-so-elegant days when I’m more like a molten lava chocolate cake, more Jackie O. than Marilyn Monroe? Or even burgundy tweed for those nights where I might want to solve a mystery while drinking martinis in a Sherlock Holmes-style library? It was Colonel Mustard in the Billiards Room with a gorgeous pink shoe!!
Oh shoes! Where have you been all my life? We have been on our separate paths, only to meet our destiny together today. So, dear reader. you might wonder, why oh why am I sitting here barefoot in my striped pajama bottoms? Well, let’s just say these shoes were a bit out of my reach, price-wise. Oh, about the price of a plane ticket somewhere, a few massages, or to put it more in perspective, the price of an island in the Caribbean. But really, can you put a price on happiness? I think not. And these shoes would definitely make me happy. So, perhaps I will find a way to bring them to their new home. Why deny it? We’re destined to be together. And when something needs a home, I usually try to find a way to help out. It’s the humanitarian in me. Really, they’re like orphan shoes, just sitting there all alone in the window, gazed at by unappreciative strangers. They deserve better, and honestly, why shouldn’t I be the one to adopt them?
This is why god made credit cards.
No, no, no, of course not. I was kidding, Darling! I am a financial wizard. I’ll save the money first and then I’ll bring them home. How vulgar to worry about price when these are really functional pieces of high art, and when you think of it like that, they’re actually a bargain! You couldn’t get an Andy Warhol for this price! Wait a minute! Maybe I should buy two pairs! Yes, that’s more like it. And who is here to complain about the price? Certainly not my husband! He’ll be too busy staring trance-like at me, mesmerized, hypnotized if you will, by their beauty. Ok, ok, you’re right, two pairs it is! “Forget the Hope Diamond,” I’ll tell him. “Who needs 45 carats of sparkle? Bring me 45 pairs of these shoes!”
I’ll let you know how it goes.