Footing the Bill

As the saying goes: "If the shoe fits, wear it." So today, after much resistance, I reluctantly strapped on my new beige sandals that I swore I'd burn before I'd ever wear again and stepped out for the first time this weekend. You see, this is how girls are, we search and search for the perfect shoes - much in the way we do for the Perfect Man - and then, we succumb to the sad reality that they do not exist - or that they are not all they were cracked up to be - and end up paying dearly for our inadequate misjudgment. In the case of my beige strappy sandals, my pinky toe bore most of the burden.

So today, in my most uncomfortable new addition to the corner of the closet set aside for the shoes I'll most likely never wear again, I set out to not one, not two, but THREE shopping malls in search of the next "great pair." Now, this is not to say that I did so blindly. I, of course, had M to lead my way – and, much like my stance on relationships, I knew exactly what I was looking for.

My love affair with these shoes started much in the way of old time movies. They caught my eye a while back and I was filled with deep regret after having walked away from them. So for the past three days, M and I set out on a state-wide manhunt (shoe hunt) in search of the Steve Maddens that had captured my heart not too long ago.

With so many desperate singles turning to the Internet for hope, why did we not try the computer before we decided to set out on such a long and hard fought journey –in stiletto heels?

To make a long story short, after trekking across Fair Oaks, Tyson's Corner, and Dulles Malls, M and I resigned to her parent's house where we undertook a world-wide (Web) search for the shoes that had eluded us all weekend. And there we found them. They were, of course, at a much higher price, but I suppose there is a high price for everything in life.

Today, my feet paid mostly.

Playing Games (Breaking all the Rules)

As little kids, we loved playing games: hide and go seek, Chinese manhunt, spin the bottle (maybe loved that one a little too much), freeze tag, etc. As we became older, we found other ways to enjoy ourselves, yet, even so, we never learned to let go of the game-playing.

Take for instance the infamous 3-day call-back rule. Heaven forbid that a guy should call a girl he likes BEFORE the 3 day waiting period! He’d be called “obsessed,” “desperate,” or other unkind words that I will not state here. While this rule may work for guys who are not altogether interested - allowing time for whatever they said to gradually be forgotten, thus making it easier for them to sink back into oblivion - girls have not fared so well. Not only do we have 3 excruitiating days of anxiety when faced with the prospect that we’ll never be hearing from our latest prospect again, but our sick imaginations are allowed to run wild: “He lost my number,” “My cell phone must have gone out of service when he called,” “He just didn’t want to leave a message,” etc. Who are we kidding anyway? This in itself also leads girls to do stupid things like start up a national MANHUNT so they can find out exactly what went wrong. "Maybe I shouldn't have signed up for the Do Not Call Registry... what was I thinking?" Poor things.

Has "He's Just Not That Into You" helped our situation or worsened it by reinforcing these self perpetuating myths?

Interested guys are also the victim of this self-imposed torture, which causes girls to think that if the guy doesn’t DISOBEY the rule it means they aren’t interested. And there are even guys out there (Dare I say it?) that think if a girl doesn't call THEM it means they don't want them to call either! This, in turn, can lead them to forgo calling, which brings us back full circle to one party or the other behaving badly. If he calls too soon, he likes us too much. If he doesn't call soon, he doesn't like us enough. If we never hear from him again, he clearly is searching to the ends of the earth to find our misplaced number or it is time for us to change phone companies because Verizon CLEARLY is conspiring against us! So no matter what a guy does, he is basically wrong, right?

Who started this nonsense anyway? I’d like for someone to give me THAT person's number!

Yet, while we all know about the immaturity and stupidity surrounding the 3-day call-back rule, have we abandoned it?? In my case, we’ve embraced the NEVER call-back rule, which may make me unfit to even be writing (or ranting) about this!!! Maybe it’s something that makes us feel younger, you know? A 30 year old might feel youthful and carefree playing these games; it may show him that he’s still got his stuff. ((SWOON)) I’m so impressed…

If there’s one thing I’m tired of right now it is traditional GAME playing. If I wanted to play a game, I would go in the closet and take one down... not prey upon some poor, unsuspecting, and otherwise naïve male and draw him into this web of contradictory relationship rules where he ultimately loses. Why are we all so keen to just accept these rules without questioning? (We didn't even accept the rules in our childhood games!) So much for adult non-conformity!

Aw well, I guess that makes me a rebel. I’m just breaking all the rules, aren't I? ;)…

Lost Soles RIP

Maddens, Steve, 3 years-old, survived by loving partner Nunzia who took great care in repairing numerous injuries even when crazy glue was required, will be sorely missed. Remains have been scattered at Union Station.

I am not superstituous, nor do I believe that Friday the 13th holds any special powers. However, on this Friday the 13th, I had the WORST luck.. when I was parted from the most loving sole(s) I've ever known... my favorite black strappy sandals!

For 3 years, and in spite of any new emerging trends, I refused to trade my beloved sandals for more modern models. Year after year, twisted ankle after twisted ankle, I crazy glued the straps back on and strutted around in them as though they were Manolo Blahniks. Some of my fondest memories include sitting at the Inner Harbor watching X glue my shoes back together before we could go to the aquarium... and then gluing them again in front of the aquarium when we were too late to be allowed admission. Black cat or not, these black shoes had nine lives.. and promised to have more. What went so tragically wrong?

Well, on Friday, as I walked towards the train (I was headed back to NY for the weekend) just minding my business, I suddenly went flying out of my shoes as the entire top tore off. Aside from the fact that I was mortified to have soared out of my shoes in such a crowded arena, I was devastated that the long journey I had walked in those shoes had come to a bitter and unexpected end. We would neve take another step together... what a sad realization.

Standing there, mouth open, wearing only one shoe and being watched by the many people who witnessed me go flying (as gracefully as an ostrich), I begrudgingly opened my bag to remove my uncomfortable 6 inch black heels - my only other black shoes - which will now have to fill.. err, replace.. those shoes... hard shoes to fill, in any case. I bitterly crammed my abused feet into the inferior taller replacements.

Sadly, I dropped my beloved, departed sandals into the garbage pail at Union Station as I continued on to my destination, hoping that no one witnessed this improper burial as I hobbled onward at new and terrifying heights, clacking all the way...