Shoes, plus my ignorance

It's a basic tenet that if you are having a problem with your outfit, it is 100% likely the problem is with the shoes. I read once that women love shoes because it's the one part of their body that always looks good and aren't judged as being too fat. Who doesn't love shoes? Like everything, I have a checklist that my shoes must provide, which helps limit the number of shoes that I buy.

First and foremost they must be comfortable for walking. I refuse to wear bandaids on any part of my feet, and I refuse to carry a second pair of shoes to get me to and fro. Second, the heel cannot be more than 2" high. I simply cannot walk in anything higher, and I feel that women who wear unwalkable shoes are hobbling themselves. And finally, the shape of the toe must be pleasing when I look at it poking out from my pants. (I would like to add a fourth, though it intrudes with my mellifluous prose, and that is a rubber sole is the golden ticket for comfort.)

The third rule is the hardest. So many shoes that look perfect on first glance have boring, round toes that are simply not enjoyable to look at.

So imagine my exuberant surprise at finding a lovely pair of ankle boots at a thrift store on Rivington Street. Except for the rubber soles, they met all criteria, and even had a cool slanty zipper for extra style. Without giving it much thought, I checked the size, 37, perfecto. I should have known something was wrong when I sat down to try them on and the saleswoman came running over to me to help take the newspaper out of the shoes and unzip them. Well, I was certainly suspicious, and as she was grilling me about whether these were indeed my size (what am I, a dunce, that I can't see the size before trying to stuff my fat feet into her precious shoes?), I turned them over to triple check the size, and there it was, three things - a very well worn sole that had me concerned, a worn down heel PLUS the sticker with the price.

Are you ready? Yes the price was the stinger. $165 for these very worn boots, because they were Jil Sander boots. I pretended not to be outraged that such a price could exist in a store with a distinct musty smell, and tried them on anyways. They were delightful, but definitely would need at least another $30 at the shoemaker. I pretended they were too big, got yelled at for trying to stuff the newspaper back in them, and shuffled out of there quickly.

(Note: I have since found out that new Jil Sander shoes are over $1000. But seriously, aren't they like cars that lose their value the second you fuck up the soles?)