November 8, 2012
When I started curating my shoe collection nearly a decade ago –when Lacroix still had his atelier, Gaultier was CD for Hermès and Muccia Prada's current models were still fetuses instead of just practically ones– I did so with the knowledge that someday the newspaper gravy train, where I was raking in tens of dollars a month, would end.
I bought carefully and within my means, bringing home a pair of new lovelies only if I could pay cash and was confident they'd be just as stylish thirty years from the moment I stood, insidey parts all a-tingle, at the Neiman Marcus jewelry counter where my wisecracking sales associate always secretly checked me out so I wouldn't have to wait in line like an animal.
That means my collection errs on the conservative side.
Good shoes are too expensive if they'll look foolish after two seasons, and capable bank robbers willing to share their bounty with law abiding fat girls in heels don't grow on trees, at least they didn't in Texas.
Several years ago, I fell in love with a shoe.
Not just any shoe, the green python Anniversary pump, the cornerstone shoe for Dior's entire magnificent collection, a far cry from the demure Valentinos I was collecting at the time.
It rung bells in belfries I didn't even know I had.
My favorite house, referencing my favorite fashion era, using my favorite material in my favorite color. The only way they could've been more suited to me is if they came with a free chiseled commitment-minded footballer who loved to give foot massages as a gift with purchase.
Sadly, it was not to be. I did manage to locate a pair in fuchsia kid leather and I do adore them, but my beloved green Anniversaries got away and even though the shoeniverse eventually tried to make it up to me by sending me that foot-rubbing footballer, it's just not the same.
Read entire article on Shoe Blog
What about you? What's your one wearable that truly got away?