One of my favorite scenes from Sex And The City (sniff – still missin’ you, SATC!) is when New York’s Sweetheart Carrie (aka, SJP for those of you who don’t know…and SHAME on you!) spots a pair of shoes in a store window that she MUST have for her date with Mr. Big. She approaches the window and places her palm gently on the glass and dreamily says, “Hello, Lover.”
I, too, have had that moment when it comes to shoes.
I am a shoe lover.
Kitten heels. Stacked heels. D’orsays. Mary Janes. Wedges. Slingbacks. Flats. Peep toes. Sneaks. Thongs. Wellies.
I don’t discriminate.
And, while I love all shoes, I do NOT love spending oodles of moolah on them.
But alas, I was smitten.
I saw these beauties about a month ago in an upscale shoe store downtown. I didn’t even know their name. And even though I admired their sleek, black patent leather and straw wedge bottom only briefly, I was hooked. I picked up the right shoe, gently turning it over, rubbing my hands over its cool, smooth body.
Then I peeped the price tag.
Then I put them back.
But I couldn’t get them out of my mind. Their shiny exterior haunted me. Their jute sole beckoned.
So today, I went back. Back to find my black beauties.
(Okay, I’ll admit it, since seeing those shoes I’ve bought an outfit with which to wear them. Okay, two outfits. Plus a handbag.)
But they were nowhere to be found. I even did the unthinkable – something I try to never, ever do – I asked the snooty sales woman for help.
ME: (pleading look in my eyes) “Um, you used to have these shoes? They were by Tory Burch? They were wedges? With a jute bottom? Like espadrilles?”
Come on, lady, can't you see I'm in pain? Help me here!
SSW: “By Tory Burch?”
Did I NOT just say that???
SSW: (to a fellow SSW) “Mira, what was the name of those Tory’s that Elizabeth bought? Remember? The black patent jute wedges?”
SSW2: “Hallie. They were beautiful shoes.”
SSW1: “Yes, they really were.”
Were? Past tense?
ME: “Are you all out? Are they all gone?” (semi-frantic)
SSW1: “I can check the computer, but those flew out the door. I mean, one day there were here, the next they were gone. Great shoes.”
Really? The shoes were beautiful and great and no longer available? I had no idea! Thanks for telling me. Repeatedly.
SSW1 clicks away on the computer. I am drawn to a beautiful messenger bag. The leather is as soft as butter on my fingertips. I turn the tag over. $865. Imported butter, obviously.
SSW1: “Well, it seems there is just one pair left – in a size 10. What size do you need?”
ME: (proudly) “I’m a 6.”
SSW1: “Oh, those go so fast. When you’re a 6 and you see something you like, you need to just buy it.” She actually tsk-tsks me. I might hit her.
Well, Miss Snooty Shoes, I’ve had size 6 feet for, oh – let's round it off – 15 years, so I am fully aware of the size 6 shoe shortage, thank you very much.
(FYI: Stores only get one pair of 6’s in, and they go out on the floor as the display. And you DO have to grab them while you can, before everyone shoves their big hooves into them to try them on.)
ME: “Okay, well, thanks for your help.”
She scribbles down the shoe name for me and tells me that places like Tory’s website and Neiman Marcus might be worth trying.
For a short while, I am filled with hope. I imagine all the compliments I’d get on my Hallies at work. Hitting the town with Hallie, taking her to trendy new restaurants and tequila bars. Pairing Hallie with a cute denim skirt. Or crisp white blouse. Or tunic dress.
I wish I were so lucky.
After an hour of internet searching, I come up empty handed.
These shoes were so great they no longer existed.
Oh, Hallie, we could’ve gone places together.