It's Italian

My colleague tipped me off about a great sale going on at her favorite store, Macy's, and pushed me out the door early to go dig into the goods.  I was nearly giddy with glee.  I was going to The Mall.

As backwoodsy as it sounds, I rarely get to The Mall. A long time ago, not only did I work at The Mall but I would never capitalize it in a sentence.  I really hated working retail but I always looked so darling.  I think I can safely credit my hatred for working retail with my decision to go to graduate school.  That and my father's subtle urging. (Look what came in the mail today, Nancy! An application for Our Lady of the Lake University! Oh, and one for Oregon State. Let's sit down right now and fill these out. In fact, I've already started them.  Just sign right here.)

So there I was, in a store other than Target, Old Navy or Costco, looking completely bewildered.  I started out by having mini strokes as I looked at price tags.  Once recovered, I watched, stunned, as people spent hundreds of dollars on things they could get for a fraction of the price at Walmart.

I then decided to go ahead and live it up by browsing. I had also graduated from needing medical care from sticker shock to "tsk, tsking," people for spending so much money.

I reached the shoe section and really began rolling my eyes.  You see, I hate shoes.  I discovered long ago that shoes are for torturing tootsies. The 80's were a particularly painful time to be fashionable.  High heels and pointy toes lead to something similar to Chinese foot binding.  I believe in stockinged feet at the most and sensible shoes when necessary.

I reached one ominous pair of black, high heeled pumps and checked the price tag.  $100 on sale? "No way," I thought.  "I could get these, in a similar fashion, at Payless for so much..." At this point my fingers caressed the leather. It gives. I slipped it on my foot. It molded to my foot. What do those Italians do to their leather?  What kind of stretchy-skinned cows are they raising?

I empathize with Imelda Marcos to some degree.  I have more shoes than I use but it's not out of love of shoes but because of loathing.  I buy a pair of shoes on sale, wear them once, get the blisters and torture, and throw them in my closet where they are later joined by other co-conspirators of pain implements. Then I have my terribly unsexy sensible shoes.

But today I wondered if the Italians have figured out a way to morph a sensible-feeling shoe with sexy style. Could they?  Did they?  I'll never know.

With deep regret I left Macy's with two doorbuster men's shirts and a luggage set for my family.  I'll spend the $100 on groceries this week. I wonder if Italian cow tastes better than our country beef.