Women are supposed to love shoes. I think it is in the club rules. I have never understood this. I am a Birkenstocks girl. I love compfy shoes. I have always felt shoes have a purpose – to support my feet and make them hurt the least they possibly can. I have plantar fasciitis and so have left style behind me for some good arch support. When the world comes tumbling down, my arches will not.
Then I saw them.
I was walking through Nordstrom, thinking I need some nice black heels. Nordstrom has shoes. I will try on some heels at Nordstrom. I looked around and they called to me.
“Marianne,” they said with an accent (any will do). “You need me. You want me. Only I truly understand you. Your children will never love you the way I love you. Your husband does not understand your true needs like I do. Take me home. I will love you forever.”
So I decided to try them on. I tried on four other pair as well but these kept talking to me. “No other shoe loves you like I do. Those are sissy shoes. They only have one-inch heels. I have three inches. I will make you into the perfect woman you wish to be.” (This sounds so much more sophisticated with an accent.)
So I put the heels back on and tried walking across the floor. And couldn’t. I had lost the ability to walk in heels. I broke out into a sweat. I knew that I had to have these shoes. It was important for my life to continue in a positive manner. I tried to think. Women who play secret agents on TV run in heels all the time. They chase down bad guys in them and catch them. If they can do it, I must learn how.
So I did what every normal woman who falls in love with a pair of three inch heels does: I left Nordstrom and joined the FBI.