Someone anonymously posted something on my blog saying I’d had a “pitiful life”. And I was like well… ouch. But then I realized that’s pretty much how I’ve presented myself while I have been trying to work out some of my issues using this kind of internet psychiatrist. So I have made the conscious decision to not be so negative in the hopes that if I say positive things that my life will reflect such. (Wishful thinking, I know but fuck you, you goddamn cynics. You’re not helping me.) Truth is that I have had a kinda pitiful life but I am also 21, reasonably attractive and exceptionally bright. The truth is that I have my whole life ahead of me and when I graduate in 3 months I have the opportunity to create one of the biggest and most successful careers that anyone in this world has ever seen. (Oooh a fresh wave of anxiety at the thought of graduating and being in the “real world”. Deep breath. Trying to hold it together… Ok keeping it movin‘…)
So with that brand new apple shiny outlook on life, I decided that maybe its about time to put aside my whiny diatribes about the issues plaguing my soul and talk about something that is really important. Not my first love, or my maybe could be in the future fiance, but my biggest love, the greatest love of all…
(Ha I bet you were waiting for something soul shattering there.)
Aren’t those just the most beautiful things you have ever seen? And wouldn’t they look so beautiful on my feet? Well most of you don’t know because you’ve never seen my feet but I’m telling you they would. I love shoes. I just LOVE them, just like every other woman I know. But maybe more so. You’re now reading words from a woman who owns more than 250 pairs of shoes.
So what? You have problems too. And there are worse things to be addicted to right? Right? Am I right?
Don’t you judge me. Don’t you shoe-shame me!!! (Get it? Well of course not, if you’re not addicted to Sex and the City the way I am of course you didn’t.)
Remember the episode where Carrie goes to her friends house for a dinner party, they make her take off her new silver Manolos at the door and someone steals them? Then when she calls her friend and asks that she reimburse her the $485 she paid for them, she balks basically saying that it’s money wasted and now that she has kids (I guess somehow making her responsible) that money like that on shoes seems wasted? Well I say if someone in your house steals shoes I spent $500 on because I had to take them off as to protect the immaculate cream carpet in your pretentious upper east side abode then you better damn well pay me back and not make me feel bad for loving shoes more than I love your carpet.
Anyway, I digress.
Oooh and these. I just love shoes. They make me more happy than… well sex. (Except with Almost Fiance which is just… well… goddamn I’m a lucky girl.) And I’ve been lucky enough to have some pretty great sex considering I just started 5 years ago. Whenever I’m having a bad day, or just a day in general, going and buying shoes make me happier. Hell, even trying them on makes me happier. Ahh the power of a nice pair of christian louboutin stiletto boots.
My witty friend Shani posted an entry about being a label whore. I, in my current position of complete label whoredom, recognize that while she tries to wax philosophical about how certain labels produce certain qualities and blah blah BLAH, that she is in the beginning of the throes of label whoredom. And, no matter what it may say about me, I’m strangely proud. That she would know and recognize the true value of say, a real monogram cerises Vuitton bag and a Canal Street knock-off, well it warms my heart. Why? Not because I think being a label whore is such a great thing, but because I’m glad she recognizes quality and the fact that she deserves it.
So at last a note to those (like my boyfriend) who think my fondness of shoes is a little too severe. Who cares?!?! This is about a woman’s right… to choose, to have sex with whoever she wants, and to shoes. And if I would like to own a pair of $500 Marc Jacobs mary janes and it makes me happy, who are you to deny me my contentment at 4 inches higher than my diminutive 5 feet 1/2 inches? This is about a woman’s right to shoes, and I as an American citizen choose to exercise that right.