Death Of a Shoe

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We’ve all owned that one shoe that was so comfortable, so stylish, so perfect, it became our signature. We literally wore it to death. Such is the tale of my first pair of Jimmy Choo slingbacks. The year was 2002. I was browsing the annual sidewalk sale at Ruth Shaw at Cross Keys Village in Baltimore. There they sat, as if the heavens had descended, and a bargain on sale for $275. They were black with perforated leather and a 3 inch heel, not too high, but high enough to make my legs look long and lean. I wore them with everything, from jeans to dresses, casual to cocktail. I wore them my first day of classes at law school (I’m like a brunette Elle Woods!) and walked home in them for two miles after getting on the wrong bus, without getting so much as a single blister. My Choos were basically the luxury version of the Easy Spitit Pumps the women played basketball in from the 1993 ad.

That year I wore my Choos so much I questioned why I even owned other shoes. I wore the heels down several times and had them repaired by a cobbler (are they still called cobblers?). Then one day I got the call. My shoe guy phoned to tell me he could no longer fix my shoes- that it would literally be unethical for him to fix them again and let me try and walk in them. The structural integrity of the shoe had completely deteriorated. All that was left was leather scraps. If they were a car, they’d be totalled. If they were a person, they’d be on life support with no signs of recuscitation. RIP.

To this day I’ve searched high and low, scoured the internet, across continents even, looking for another perfect shoe. Alas, the perfect shoe is a myth, its a mirage, or a legend. And I’ve got the blisters to prove it.