I lost a shoe a few weeks back. Yes, ONE shoe. No, I was not galavanting around town in one shoe, wondering what became of the other one. This is New York; we walk quite a bit. As some of you know, I have incredibly low tolerance for impractical or uncomfortable shoes, and I'm always looking for shoes that I think look great but are also comfortable. This led me to the shoes you see here. Love them. My favorites. Still, after a day of walking and an evening of standing, in these or any heels, I generally have to change into flats. When I get home, I take my shoes off near the door, empty whatever bag(s) I am carrying (which usually contains the heels I took off in exchange for flats; either a foldable shopping bag of sorts, with no zip closure, or more often my gym bag, which zips), and wind down for the evening. Every few days, I clean up the shoe pile and return the shoes to their home on the shoe rack in my closet. As I was doing this recently, I somehow found myself with one shoe — the lone beauty you see pictured. One. After retracing my steps, I inquired about the shoe at the three places I had been that night: Mother's Ruin, the Duane Reade nearby, and a taxi. No shoe. I went online looking for a replacement pair, but the bordeaux color I love is no longer available. I gave up, with a heavy heart.
Until Tuesday night. That night, I ran into T.J. from Mother's Ruin, who casually mentioned that he found my shoe. Last night, I went to retrieve it, and today, I'll wear them happily, and make sure they both make it safely home. That is, unless I have to wear galoshes again.