Shoes!

Part of the adventure of getting dressed in the morning, involves a good pair of shoes. But ‘good’ is relative. Today is the first day of the semester and I am rocking some five-inch heels with five silver buckles, my favorite pair. These shoes usually only make it out of the house on Sundays. They are shelved in my closet under thirty-pace-shoes. Most shoes on that shelf do not ever see the university campus, because walking is my primary mode of transportation, and all of my classes are far enough apart to defy the “thirty pace” rule.


(This is a good example of a pair of shoes I would sacrifice my feet for, so cute!)

Before walking out the door my husband gives me “the look”. Without saying anything, he is telling me to change my shoes.

The justifications that I had thought up earlier are brought into play, “They go with this outfit, I put Band-Aides in my backpack, and I don’t think they hurt that bad, they are too cute to leave in my closet. MANKIND MUST SEE THESE HEELS!”


(These I don't think I would EVER wear. They're a bit too "needy" for me)

My arguments fall on deaf ears. He rolls his eyes.

My weak reasoning and rationalizations only make me feel more resolute in my shoe choice.

Many compliments and hours later I am out of Band-Aides. The back of my heel is bleeding slightly and I can feel a blister forming on the inside of my right pinky toe. But I do not feel defeated. I have done everything the average college student has done today, but I did it wearing heels. Why do I love these shoes that hurt me?

(EW.)

Like loving real butter and bacon, I love heels. I know they are bad for me, but I am addicted.


(I secretly LOVE the look of these shoes, but would never wear them.... I don't think they'd even be 30 pacers!)