There is a reason that I do not own any Manolo Blahnik pumps.
All right, there are two reasons that I don't own any Manolo Blahnik pumps. For the sake of this post, however, we will only address the issue of more noteable import: Long Term Relationships. Like most human-types, I have a healthy respect for (read: fear of) the LTR.
These little beasts creep right up on us, and frequently stay "under the radar" for months until, one lethargic night, you wake up in a cold sweat at 3 AM, tangled in your astronaut pajamas, and you see the remainder of your natural life stretching endlessly forward. Launching yourself at the nearest reflective service, you pull desperately at the bags under your eyes and gaze, agape, watching your visage change with a fear unmatched even by Dorian Gray himself.
(Exception: This experience is, of course, exponentially diminished if you are waking up next to the lithe-limbed, ultra-loving hottie of your dreams. You're also probably not wearing astronaut pajamas, in this instance, and therefore this post does NOT apply to you.)
"How," you ask your decrepit reflection, "did this happen?" You have always been the picture of contentedness! As the great treadmill of time has spooled beneath your feet, you have sighed as many times from joy as frustration. What is it, then, that has rocketed you into this late-night, teeth-clenching turmoil? Maybe it's just the veggie crunch-wrap you had before bed, but I respectfully suggest that the culprit is otherwise.
Let's put it this way: Once you wear the Blahnik pumps to the club, they become a different demon altogether. Chances are, your best friend has spattered them with a healthy layer of martini, you've wrenched the heel out of at least 2 sidewalk chasms, and, come to find out, after six hours of dance-stagger-trotting through the city, they hurt like a son of a bitch.
You wanted them, though, and you GOT them, baby. All *cough* hundred dollars of them are now yours, and, should you choose NOT to wear them, they will tsk judgmentally from the back of your closet, until, driven mad with guilt, you bring them out for another torturous evening. This time, you will suffer in silence.
This is, dear reader, "le pire des cas," and therefore should be read with the full knowledge that there is a good chance your over-priced foot-covers will feel great! However, this tiny crack in the great glass tower of FAITH is the source of my aforementioned, all-powerful terror of The LTR.
I am, this Monday morning, a Receptionist plagued with a raging case of nerves. My acceptance to graduate school has hammered down my where-abouts/activities for the next two and a half years of my life-space. I am thrilled... and panicked.
A Reticent Receptionist