There’s a wedding.  I have to wear grown up clothes.  I hate grown up clothes.

I have a dress. (Yes, really, I own a dress.) I need shoes. I have to buy shoes.

I go to the shoe store.  Excuse me, the “Shoe Citadel of Glorious Bargains on all Brand Name Shoes for Men, Women and Children.”  Three stories of shoes. Shoes. Three stories of SHOES.  I need: one pair of shoes.

Flats? Pumps? Heels? Sandals? Sandals with heels? Open-toe?  Peep-toe? (WHAT??) Wedges? Stilletos? Box and One? (Kidding, that’s a basketball term…)  I want to go with something spring-like…(spring–like I really know what that means).

I am wandering the aisles of the women’s section (which consists of approximately two and two-thirds of the floors at the Shoe Citadel of …yeah-yeah.)  I narrow down my search to black shoes that aren’t basketball, running, soccer, flip-flops, hi-tops, or sandals.  This narrows my search down to two floors of flats, pumps, heels, sandals with heels…

I am in serious trouble here.  I’m standing in a section of shoes that are commonly referred to using a procreational phrase in the reflexive form. (Hint:  Two words, the second one being “…me.”)  These are not the shoes I’m looking for.  I try again in another section commonly referred to as “mother-in-law” shoes.  I’m not saying these shoes are ugly, I am saying that if I’m buried in them, I will rise up and kick someone’s ass.

Finally, I find an aisle (just one aisle) and I’m starting to think that the last three hours have not been wasted, I might find what I’m looking for.  As I’m perusing various models/styles, whatever the hell you call them, a young lady with a very nice name tag, comes up to me and says, “Maybe I can assist you with something?”  I say, “There’s this wedding…”  “Right, I have just the thing for you..” The next thing I know we’re back in “mother-in-law”.

I convince her she should go away. Now. I go back to where I was before being so rudely interrupted.  I continue to search for a shoe that will work.  I have to keep looking over my shoulder to see if the sales chick sent a bouncer after me. I find something that I think meets all the requirements.  It has a heel, well, a wedge.  It’s black.  It looks vaguely spring-like.

I take a deep breath,  sprint to the counter, drop my cash, grab the bag (and the receipt, just in case) and hit the revolving door, head down, elbow up.  I am on the subway before I open my eyes again.

I report back.  I have a dress, I have shoes.

You know you’re going to need a belt, right?

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