Shoe Slut

The Shoe Slut feature was conceived entirely as a vehicle for me to show off this new pair of shoes. They’ve been in my apartment, waiting patiently for a day that felt fall-like enough for me to wear them. Today was that day. (Actually, yesterday was, but the shoes got trumped by my Weight Watchers milestone. I love the shoes, but all I had to do was plunk down my debit card for them. I EARNED the fifteen pounds.)

I had gone into my favorite outlet store, the only place I’ll buy gym socks because they have the perfect blend of function, comfort, and cute little embroidered designs. You didn’t expect me to work out in plain white socks, did you? While I was there I decided to breeze through the shoe section, and there they were. They were calling my name. Polly can vouch. She was on the phone with me at the time, and I spoke about them in a voice I normally reserve for Lindt truffles and muscular bald men. They didn’t have my size, and I was about to leave disappointed when I saw one pair mis-shelved. It was clear. God wanted me to have these shoes. I put them on, and that was it. They made me feel sexy and pretty and feminine. And they hardly hurt at all, which given my tendency to choose style over comfort is pretty much a slam dunk.

I wore them with all black, naturally, and kept popping into other women’s offices to show them off. The beauty of working in marketing is that my coworkers can really appreciate an accessory. One friend even asked to touch them. Now that’s a sign of a good shoe.

p.s. I took the picture in my office window so you could see part of my view. In case you were beginning to wonder if I was lying and really blogging from like Omaha or something.