17
Aug
Off

The Devil Is In The Heels

You have tripped into the shushed, costly interior of a classy Midtown department shop. The shoes in front of you are red usual leather 4½ -inch platforms of close by apt design, and, you are aware before you generally turn them over, spinning price. You are able to perceive evaluative about your need for the shoes. Moreover, you have a healthy class-identity for people who dress usually in attire from this shop, and have a feeling that it is incorrect for things to charge this much in a world where people can’t bear a bowl of rice.

You do not, in some common way, accept the FSJshoes store and its expressions and classiness and museum-like wonder; in specific ways you perceive people are not meant to appear this clergyman, this abundantly accurate; your aesthetic actually seeks toward tattered, toward accident, toward inattention, but you are unable to, say, get out of the store.

You do not wholly perceive that the shoes will change you into someone else, or a better kind of yourself. You are able to apprehend that you will just perfectly be you in the shoes, and there will be no spectral solving of your issues, no particular light abandon by the shoes. You are conscious that the women you praise most in the world would not be present here; finely consent to by this specific salesman, dandy and classy and almost identical from compliment as that scorn is.

Now securely settled in the next century, you could convey too neat and polished talk about how today’s women have the splendour of caring about shoes, and also going after their mental or expert aims. You would contend, very competently, that women can select how much time to invest on their hair, their attires, and that selection is the essential thing. At the similar time, you are sensible of that in this polished talk there is a bit core of undecided something.

And then certainly there is the fact that the shoes are acutely costly. They are so sorely costly that they propel you into an unusual world from the one you actually live in; it senses as if you are all of a sudden dealing in patent money, a foreign currency in a country you are about to exit from, and are not wholly certain of the exchange rate anyhow. The reality that there is no way you can certainly bear or give grounds for the shoes releases you somehow, as if the person solely holding the box of shoes and even the box is particularly nice could not actually be you, and anything she does would be the unheeding act of a stranger.

The parties you have scratched in your calendar appear more shiny or interesting or enjoying, and you in the clear shoes, more formidable, sparser, at liberty, and more impervious. Another shopper has heedfully indicated that the shoes are “clear” but delicacy has never been your thing. Do you desire to be the sort of person who gives up, overreacts, for a pair of shoes, who permeates them with a romantic cover that a material object cannot actually bear? Maybe you do.