Aside from Hari-Kari, the only sensible answer is to go buy shoes. Buying shoes accomplishes two tasks. First it helps to keep the economy afloat by conspicuously consuming and consumer debt (though I used my debit card). Second, it gives me a sense of comfort knowing that people around me have fabulous shoes, or more specifically knee-high boots with a 2 inch heel to look at during their dreary, downward spiral of service that is now the subway system (I want the MTA to know that I, and everyone else who rides the subway, noticed a distinct downtick in service over the past few weeks and cynically expect them to come forward crying poor any day now). It's actually just about retail therapy.
I try really hard not to rely on retail therapy given that psychotherapy, even the kind with electric shocks, is so much cheaper. I often find myself mindlessly wandering stores across Manhattan, carrying around the perfect sweater, dress, bag, only to talk myself out of it usually due to my inability to wait on a line or lack of mental stability to remove my clothing in front of a 180 degree panorama of well lit mirrors. Occasionally though I buy stuff.
Seeking comfort in shopping is deeply ingrained in my soul. I grew up in New Jersey and not just any part of New Jersey, but the land where two major highways connect and malls are born like bunnies in the spring. I once counted and there are six major malls in the 25 minute drive from NYC to my house. Shopping, like Bon Jovi or the rush of cars on the highway, wraps me in the comforts of childhood and I can, for a brief moment in time, find inner peace.
But yesterday, when I set out from work on a mission to find the perfect pair of black, knee-high boots with a pointy toe, fashionable but not trendy, and thoroughly unpractical, I hadn't really anticipated the feeding frenzy that was the shoe store.
I headed out to J.Crew, all ready to pay $300 for the perfect pair of boots. An enabler at the office assured me that $300 for a good pair of boots was a bargain and I believed her because I know that with shoes you get what you pay for. I decided to stop at DSW just to see if they had anything.
I should have suspected from the look of the frazzled security guards that something was up. There were shoe boxes on the floor, people being taken away in handcuffs, and cashiers that looked like they were being force fed Benzedrine.
Oh God, its their annual fall boot sale.
The scene was as vicious as any mall at Christmas time, women grabbing 5-6 boxes at a time, fashionably dressed ladies sitting on the floor yanking up thigh high hooker boots without regard for their exposed crotchal area, and some sad sad sobbing from people without size 5 or 11 feet realized it was just too late for their kind.
But there they were, the perfect boot. In my size. The box just sitting there alone on the shelf. They were lovely and I grabbed the box and clutched it to my chest thinking "These must be really hideous if no one wants them, but I love them." I tried on the 9 and it fit like a glove and I didn't have to grease up my calves or anything to get them zippered.
Now I don't believe in love at first sight or soul mates but yesterday I truly believed that some higher power had not only placed these boots in my path but had built a protective force field, perhaps some sort of Vulcan Kloacking device, to ensure that they were mine.
But then I noticed the brand and it was one of the most expensive brands that they carry. How much was I willing to pay for these perfect boots? I needed to pay my bills but who needs electricity, TV, a car, or maintenance on their co-op when they have the perfect boots?
I've seen a lot of movies where a character's faith is tested and they choose. I was ready. I slowly turned the box over in my hands and the price revealed itself. $120 and I thought, "I should buy these in brown."
But I didn't because the economy is in the toilet.
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