Every girl has them… the pair of utterly gorgeous, to-die-for, more expensive than she ever should have spent of a pair shoes that are sitting in her closet mocking her. Perhaps they were a sale too good to pass up, or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the attempt to console a broken heart, or a lovely gift. Whatever the reason, these incredibly fantastic, dreamy shoes sit there and mock because as wonderful as they are, the girl can’t wear them. Like one of the evil step sisters, the magic slippers simply don’t fit, they are too small, or too tight, too high, or too outrageous to ever actually be worn. It breaks her heart.
I got my stepsister shoes quite innocently. We were preparing for NYC last May when I mentioned to Mr French that I did not have any decent walking flats for our trip. We were on the rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré running an errand at the time, and just as I said this, he noticed a fantastic antique mirror inside a shop. I didn’t have time to warn him that it was not an antique boutique before he was inside, with the intent to shop. We were in a shoe store. And not just any shoe store, it was THE shoe store, it was Roger Vivier.
Heading upstairs to see more of the design, Mr French soon started looking at the shoes and one thing led to another and before I knew it we were walking out the door with an Audrey Hepburn worthy masterpiece in python skin. The shoes fit. Perfectly. In the shop.
That Monday I shared my acquisition with the Yoga Yenta, telling her that I had some gorg new walking shoes for NYC.
“Oh no,” she moaned “try them first, Sylvia, I have a pair and after ten minutes that signature buckle of his digs a hole into my foot.”
I did not believe her, but I listened, wearing them on a quick errand to the dry cleaners. 10 minutes later I was home and my feet were bleeding; in three different places. I took them back to the shop and they were sent out to be stretched. I tried them again. This time only one area suffered, on top where the buckle digs in with each step, just as the YY had warned. I don’t blame Roger. I see numerous chic Parisiennes sauntering through the city streets with his iconic buckle. I blame it on my peasant ancestry and stubby toes. The shoe won’t fit. Its devastating.
Of course, I mean this in a relative way. No one is sick, and my life is pretty great without new shoes, but this was a pretty extravagant dream purchase and the shoes are now destined to sit in my closet well within my grasp, yet beyond my reach. Mocking me.