My Taryn Rose designer shoes laugh at me every time I open my closet door. It is a low throaty chuckle, rich and resonant. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. My $475.00 Bernie Madoff moment of last spring. They laugh at me because I was arrogant and impulsive. I didn't charge them. I paid cash. Except--- it wasn't my money! Oh the hilarity, oh the insanity. And what's worse? I can't wear them. That's right. You heard me. I. Can't. Wear. Them.
Friends, they are beautiful. Elegant. Black patent Italian leather. Sexy. I couldn't wait to wear them. I was sure my life would be transformed. I would become this other woman. A woman of means, of intelligence, of beauty, erudition. After all, I had just graduated from NYU, paid for with other people's money. Oh, the irony just doesn't get any better. Still, it was spring, and I was smart, my diploma said so. I deserved these shoes. They loved me, and I loved them.
I had family in town. We traversed Canal Street, bounded up Broadway, meandered on Bleecker-- Marc Jacobs, the Magnolia Bakery, except my f---ing feet were killing me. When we got home, the muscles in my thighs were convulsing, throbbing. I called up friends, family, what can I do? I wrapped my legs in warm compresses, soaked the towels in vinegar and finally ended up in a hot bath at midnight.
So now its a year later and I am wearing a pair of black cowboy boots, an XMAS gift from my father, circa 2003. The heels are run down, the soles are thin, the leather is cracked. This is why the Taryn Rose shoes are laughing at me. The extravagance of last year has come back to mock me and haunt me. I can't wear those shoes. I can't afford another pair. The thought of spending close to five hundred dollars on footwear now seems insane.
Wouldn't you be laughing, too?
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