You guys, I am in the midst of a great personal tragedy. Of the shoe variety. Remember that time I bought those killer shoes at that awesome thrift store? Well, I was there again last night, and they had three pairs of barely-worn Manolo Blahniks. For cereal. Well, not for cereal, but for dirt cheap. I wanted them. I wanted them all, and I wanted them bad.
They were half a size too big.
I tried to make them work, I really did. There can't really be that much difference between a 37 and a 36.5*, right? Well, yes, there can be, and with high heels, there isn't always room for heel pads or cotton in the toes.
I paced the aisle for about half an hour in a full-fledged anxiety attack, I wanted them so badly. I called my mom, but she seems to think that I'm an adult and therefore capable of making my own decisions. (I'm not entirely certain I agree.)
I went home shoeless, because my stupid brain decided to be reasonable. Jerk.
You know how actors are supposed to think of something really, really sad to make themselves cry? Or how, in Italy, a family will hire people to weep and wail at a funeral? I now have the material to do that.
*What, doesn't everyone memorize their European shoe size on the off-chance of coming across a pair of Manolos in a thrift store?
(True: Tom Cruise went to India and his PR people hired professional fans to scream when he got off the plain. So he's got the material, too.)
Talk of shoes makes Bud nervous. Whatever happened to your shoes, it's not his fault. Geez, you haven't even met him yet!