There are certain moments in life that define you. I’m not talking about the big, life-altering “I just found out I have cancer” or “Do I push my friend out of the way of the speeding bus” moments. I’m talking about little things that seem insignificant, but really say a lot about who you are as a person. I recently had one of these moments, and I’m not really sure it said good things about me.
I had just started my first job. I hadn’t received my first paycheck yet, but I knew it was coming and celebrated its impending arrival by purchasing a pair of Gianni Bini boots online. The ability to purchase shoes was my primary motivation to get a job and my relationship with Gianni Bini has reached a near-worship level.
I continuously refreshed my email anxiously awaiting my all-time favorite email. (There truly is nothing better than the “Your package has shipped” email). Shortly after receiving said email, FedEx tracking was in my most visited sites. That damn purple bar just did not want to turn green. But the day it did, man did I run home from work. I tore through the packaging like a 5-year-old on Christmas and lovingly pet my new suede boots.
The next morning I left my apartment with a smile in an outfit that had been predetermined to be the most complimentary to the new boots. That smile, however, did not last long. As it turns out, my new boots were not as into me as I was to them. In fact, they hated me. Not like a “I hate you for always getting your way” kind of hatred, but a “You stole my boyfriend and killed my dog” kind of hatred. By the time I hobbled into work I was pretty sure that the side of my ankle had been shaved off down to the bone. I stuff some napkins in the side of the shoe to block some of the contact and did not stand up the rest of the day.
I surveyed the damage after a most painful and challenging trip back home and it was not pretty. It took a full week before I had enough skin on the side of my foot to handle anything but flip-flops. And another week before I could look at the Satan boots. But, eventually, I did. And this is where I start to question my decision-making abilities. Everyone told me to get rid of the ankle annihilators, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was no stranger to bleeding for gorgeous footwear, but this was definitely the most extreme case. But, how could I call myself a true shoe lover and never wear these boots again? It would be starting down the path of picking my shoes based on comfort and I just couldn’t be that person. If I allowed that, how long would it be before I was wearing crocs everyday? I simply had to figure out how to wear the boots again. The napkins had provided a little barrier, but not enough to stop whatever the hell is in these boots from chewing on my feet. I tried band-aids but they too, were too thin. Then, it hit me. I knew exactly what would save my feet, but was I willing to do it? It seemed that making this decision was crossing a line. It was like screaming to the world “my priorities are seriously fucked up.” Clearly, when I can say that to me, getting a job meant new shoes and not being able to eat and having a place to live, my priorities aren’t the best. But, this was a whole new level and I did it anyway. I took a deep breath and taped panty liners around the sides of my heels. And you know what? I wear the boots all the time.