I bought a pair of Jimmy Choo’s. I desperately walked through the aisles of Saks Fifth Avenue for months and almost uninterruptedly I tried those bronze colored high-heeled sandals on like clockwork. It wasn’t until the 9th visit that the words of utter judgement and negativity began to fade and I began to see nods of approval and eyes glistening with encouragement while they passed on by. As I slipped on those cinderella shoes, the world around me became silent and magical and filled with happiness.

I suffered nearly 27 panic attacks as I walked over to the cash register and awkwardly whispered to that nice Indian woman that I was ready. I was ready alright. Like a one night stand, I felt both sensuality and a hint of regret as I visually raped those shoes with my dirty thoughts of where I’d wear them to and who I’d pair them with. The room felt so dark and cold but I was feeling too much excitement and too little anxiety to notice. I could only envision myself walking out of the store and stepping into Torrance’s dream except instead covering myself up with pompoms I only had a pair of high heels and the velvety pink bag that came with them to shield all of this nudity.

As I swiped my credit card I imagined a rage of emotional men and compulsive shoppers cheering me on with packs ice-cold beer and red velvet cupcakes and a plateful of crispy bacon. It was a thrill but my bank account had no intention of accepting any of my apologies. And I was sad for a little while. Until one very spontaneous night I went on a date with my better half and the feeling I got as I stepped out the door was just as passionate and romantic as swallowing the first icy sip of that fermented ale that sinks down to your stomach before you’ve even gotten the chance to grab your first bite of food.

And maybe if I spent more of my money buying expensive shoes this feeling wouldn’t be as paramount as it has been but I can’t afford to. For that I vow to cherish these Jimmy Choo’s as much as I cherish my romantic relationship with beer.

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