Firehouse red, they are. Or, better known to some, “fuck-me” red. They’re shiny, too, but too cute to be called slutty. Given their modest heels, I’d describe them as flirty. They’re downright irresistible and in excellent condition.
I bought them for $10 at a hospice thrift shop.
A hospice thrift shop? you ask, thinking, My God. Not only does she buy used shoes, but dead people’s used shoes.
Well, I’m not ashamed of either. Okay, maybe a little about them being used. But the dead part, not one bit.
Look. It’s not like I waited by the woman’s deathbed and wrenched the shoes off her feet as she took her last breath. Or that she fought for them, leaving claw-marks down the sides. Nor had I read the obituaries every day, hoping that a woman with a closet full of Ann Kleins, Jimmy Choos or Guccis — and was a confirmed size 7 — had dropped dead.
If that was my modus operendi, I’d be prying opal rings off of bony fingers and diamond earrings off of dry, shriveled ears.
I would never go that far.
Say what you will. In the final analysis, if the dead woman had known me, she’d have wanted me to have those shoes. I know this as surely as I do that macaroni and cheese and Nutella won’t bring back my waistline.
I am the woman who, in better economic times, passed an obscene number of hours in shoe sections of every major department store (and Marshall’s Super-Shoe Outlets) from here to Idaho. (I live in New Jersey.) Who matched her clothing to her shoes, rather than the other way around. Whose computer screen-saver is a close-up of her cherished blue butterfly mules (purchased online four minutes after she learned she owed $1,300 in taxes).
I am also the woman who has developed Achille’s tendonitis and is warned by her podiatrist not to wear high heels or flats.
This effectively retires 98.3% of my adorable shoe collection. It’s a barbed swizzle stick through my heart, causing anguish on par with that of my parking trials.
You know what I think?
I think if the dead woman had known me, she’d have left me all of her shoes, and a couple of scarves to boot.Insomnia: An Email To My Guy Friend | The Duck Man →