Comfort and Tuxedo Flats

Entering the subway stop near my apartment, I maneuver adroitly between piles of discarded trash, cheap pink sparkling wine bottles and plastic wrappers advertising some sickly neon sugared concoction; as I exit, I maneuver adroitly between visiting businessman wielding boxed rolling luggage and European tourists in stark white sneakers, snapping up moments of billboards with their cameras. It is an immeasurable departure from the short strut to my car, a few precious moments of radio blaring, and the equally short strut to my suburban office. Dainty heels, while not completely extinct, some sartorial memory, are an item that necessitate much more careful consideration, planning, willingness to endure the potential for pain. A masochistic Monday.

It pleases me that the tuxedo, or smoking, depending on linguistic preference, flat has had an extended flaunting trend time. They are comfortable, easily adorned with some bit of fancy to add intrigue. This particular pair, nearly stolen off of the discount shelf of a bargain basement shoe warehouse, evoke a hint of flamboyant French eighteenth-century noble, topped with some mountainous powdered wig. A bit more modern, a bit more contained, and a bit more appropriate for walking the mean and harried streets of midtown Manhattan.