They are all hideous and I’d rather go barefoot to my next formal function than force my little piggies into such horrid confines.
“Can I help you,” a twenty-something guy in a bright sweater asked.
“Uh, yes,” I responded. I picked up a plain looking shoe that would be appropriate for even an Amish wedding. “This one. I’d like this in a size 13.”
“A thirteen?” he asked.
“Yes. Do you have it?”
“Let me check. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared into that other realm beyond the curtain where only those who have taken the dress shoe pledge can enter. I can only imagine that behind the curtain is a huge warehouse with walls and walls of shelving filled with shoes of every shape and size and discomfort where Keebler-like elves scurry about to retrieve the shoe of choice.
After a moment or two of sitting there wishing I were somewhere else, the shoe guy returned with my box of shoes. He straddled that footstool thing with the rubber slant on which the customer places his or her foot during the shoe fitting process.
As he took the right shoe out of the box, I started questioning my hygiene. Did I use enough foot powder? Am I positive I put on a clean pair of socks? I know I did, but I still questioned myself. Going to try on shoes with smelly feet inside dirty socks ranks up there with eating raw onions sprinkled with garlic powder while waiting to see the dentist. You should be ashamed of yourself.