These ruby Dita von Teese-esque beauties stole my heart today. I went to Cavendish with my friend Jenna with the intention of buying a shirt dress I had spotted in the latest issue of Elle, and when they didn’t have my size I was most despondent.
We were on the hunt, both in need of that addictive, heady feeling you get when you find it – the item that connects with your heart, makes your chest feel light and empty and your eyes bright. We trailed through Woolworths (tried on a floor length silk kaleidoscope of a dress at Country Road and briefly lost focus) and landed up in the shoe department, where I was brought to a halt, amidst wedges and mules. The bustle turned to blur as I laced them up and tripped towards the mirror to admire them on my feet. Jenna said: “They’re bloody high,” and I nodded, transfixed. I saw a passerby’s eyes alight upon the shoes on my feet and she headed for where they were displayed, her eyes darting between the display and my feet, surely torn between ogling and wanting to find them in her own size.
My mind made up, I started unlacing them, murmuring “These are the ones”. Jenna briefly reasoned that they were impractical and I would not get as much wear out of them as I would out of the dress, but the gleam upon my face told her it was futile, and resigned, she said “I’ve seen you like this before”. Jenna and I lived together for two years, so she is well accustomed to my pathological attachment to my clothes, my exhaustive handwashing, the loving caresses I give my garments and jewels, and the trance-like state I go into when in love/lust with a potential new addition.
They’re so high that they keep my hamstrings in a permanent stretch, and make my feet feel as if they are truly vertical, but this is it.