This weekend was eventful.  Eventful enough I had a plausible excuse to avoid church.  The pastor’s starting a new sermon series.  His sermon series are always based on books and irritate me considerably.  I could read the book in an hour or two instead of wasting my time on his simplistic hillbilly renderings of the text.

OGfPS was in town this weekend.  We went out twice.  I can unequivocally say, oh gentle reader,  that I am in love…

with these shoes.

I hope that didn’t alarm anyone unduly.  I thought it was funny.  Also, true.  On Friday we went out for drinks and then dinner.  On Saturday we went for a walk downtown before having a picnic in the park.    Afterward, I went to a Halloween party and then a teenage-style sleepover party.

Saturday I was wearing my very favorite shoes during this walk.  I stumbled on an uneven spot in the sidewalk and, somehow, the ankle strap on my right shoe snapped.  I staggered bravely on for a few blocks, holding my high wedges on with an appealing combination of  curled toes and leg dragging.  Finally, I plopped down on a concrete ledge to take off my shoe and dig through my purse for a solution of some sort: a bandaid or a safety pin or anything at all.

Can I see that for a moment? says OGfPS.  He takes my shoe from the concrete ledge–and then takes off with it.

Wai…t.

Damn.

He’s gone around the corner.

Well now, I think to myself, this will make a fine anecdote.  I’m out with a boy–and by boy I mean man in his late thirties–and he steals my shoe and disappears.  That’s how I like to spend my Halloween: barefoot and blocks and blocks from my car.  Since I’m downtown, I’ll be faced with more than a few broken beer bottles on the sidewalk between me and Meg White(Car).  I sigh and think that this situation is exactly the sort of thing I expect from my dating life.  And I wonder how much longer I should wait on this guy and my shoe before resigning myself to this hilarious but far from satisfactory fate.

He returns before I’ve quite resolved to leave and is carrying a bright pink shopping bag.

Here.

Inside are a pair of shoes I’d admired when we’d walked past a shop window a few minutes before.

You’re very sweet.  But I can’t accept this.  This is… too much like taking money for the powder room…  You’ve already driven all this way and all.  I’ll be fine: I can just walk barefoot.  I have flipflops in my car, I think.

Money for the what?

Powder room.  Like in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I always allude to this movie, and I get the impression that few people have actually seen it, despite its broader cultural resonance.

She was a call girl, right.

Right.  Exactly.  I can’t accept a gift like this is:  it’s weird.

Would you have taken flowers?  If I’d bought flowers would you’ve told me they were too much and you couldn’t accept them?

No, but–

It’s the same thing, practically.  If anything, the shoes were less expensive than, say, a dozen roses and will last longer.   And the sidewalk, despite the warmth of the day, is probably quite chilly due to last night’s temperatures.

The shoes, by the way, were from a shop that seems to cater mostly to the budgets of college hipsters from the university a few blocks away.  It’s a place that advertises jeans for fifteen bucks.

Then he launches into a small lecture on utilitarianism.  Because he’s a philosophy professor and apparently can’t help himself.  I put on the shoes and slip my broken ones into the shopping bag, which he insists on carrying.

My feet start bleeding almost right away, because a nice long walk in brand new shoes with five inch heels is a recipe for that particular brand of pain.  But I really don’t care: because I am in love with these shoes.  They go with every single thing in my closet and manage to be just the right brand of anachronistic for the several decades of vintage I wear.   When I got home yesterday, I propped them up by my tv where I’d probably put a vase of flowers.

I still don’t know my exact feelings about this guy.  But, damn, he is nice to me.

 

 

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