Thursday, December 8, 2011
Impulse Purchase, Redux: Studded Ballet Flats
A few weeks ago, upon my return from frolicking across country, drinking wine and eating food with Katherine, I immediately traveled into the beautiful and familiar boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn, primarily to meet my gorgeous newborn niece, but also to catch up with a number of old university friends who had congregated for a much anticipated reunion weekend. After spending all afternoon holding the baby and marveling at her tiny perfection, I left to meet a group on the Upper West Side. Much to my dismay, as I departed from my sister's home, beaming, blind to the travails that would soon greet me, I spent literally an hour wandering around Brooklyn Heights and DUMBO in an attempt to locate a subway station that would actually take me into Manhattan. It seemed that, for that particular weekend, each and every possible train I would have normally taken was down, delayed, and temporarily out of service for repairs. I explored the odorous, sepulcher caverns of five different stations, before finally, and slowly, discovering that I must travel even deeper into the borough before I could head in my desired direction.
During this walking tour, which was quite pleasant, given the neighborhoods and weather, but frustrating as I was growing increasingly late to meet my friends, my boots surrendered. My leather riding boots were beautiful, and not inexpensive; after the first wear, the rubber sole wore away, disengaging from the rest of the shoe. Ever since, they have been repaired both by myself and a cobbler, and have been worn relatively infrequently, especially given how much I love to wear a good pair of allegedly sturdy boots. Running around Brooklyn in search of functional public transit, the rubber sole finally tore clean off, flopped pathetically on the pavement like a pile of dead squid flesh, exhausted from the struggle of the tempestuous and constant currents of the waves.
Sweating mildly and with a broken shoe, I was angry and determined. Once on the train, I calculated my path uptown, and realized I would be passing a large and frenzied Century 21 department store. There, in the hallowed space of designer names for less, where, occasionally in exchange for a bruise from another crazed shopper, a bargain is found, I scoured the ballet flats, looking for anything that was not ridiculously priced and would somewhat match my evening attire. Black seemed the easiest, most logical route. Rhinestone studded embellished black ballet flats, with this preconceived criteria, became my new destiny. Simultaneously intrigued and averse to looking like a young adolescent girl, in retrospect, I can see these shoes becoming quite popular in my weekend outing and errand rotation.
Thursday evening pizza and Malbec soundtrack: Everybody Digs Bill Evans Bill Evans