Tag Archive: shoes

Shopping Redux

There was a wedding.  I had to wear grown up clothes.  I hate grown up clothes.

I had the dress. (Yes, I really own a dress.) I had to buy shoes. I bought shoes, and I didn’t wear them…I’ll be returning the shoes.

I had to have a belt. Well, thank god I didn’t go buy a belt, because I didn’t wear one.  But I did have to buy a black ‘cardigan’, which is just an expensive way of saying sweater with buttons.

The cardigan became the target of a drive-by shopping.  First, we drove past Marshall’s, then we walked by Old Navy, but, my resistance being weakened, I was sucked into Macy’s.

I, was able to avoid the tentacles of retail madness, by walking up to the first sweater I saw, took it off the display walked to the ….err,  cashier? attendant? waitress? oh…salesperson, and said, “I need one of these.  In a large.”  She replied (and here, she became my hero), “You’re in petites, I’ll take you to the other display where you’ll find the correct size.”

She walked me across the way, to a table with six sizes of sweaters in two styles and three colors.   My head is starting to hurt, my stomach is starting to turn.  She says, “Here’s the black in a large.  Would you like a shell to go with that?” Apparently the blank look on  my face was sufficient for her to hold up a matching tank top (Shell: Expensive tank top, got it.).  “No, no. I’m fine. …Don’t need it in blue or green either, but thank you.”  I said.  Followed by, “Thank you for showing me these, you really rock.” At which point my companion rolled his eyes, and pretended not to know me.  But the lady understood.  Here I stand in jeans, high tops, and an over-sized dress shirt, asking about cardigans, and looking like a deer in the headlights.  Or like a calf at a new gate.  Or both.

She showed me the counter, and a nice gentleman waited on me.  “Do you need the shell that goes with this?” “Nope. Don’t need the other colors either.  Thank you though.”  Credit card. Sign. Receipt (“In the bag please.”) Out the door.  Total time?  Let’s just say I waited longer for my appetizer at the Roadhouse.

Now, I have to take the shoes back…sigh.  The very thought of being shoved back into the sucking quagmire of retail footware.  Maybe next week.



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?