Y’all, let’s have a moment of silence for my favorite Brian Atwood pumps. They fought the good fight, having been brutally attacked by a vicious creature early in their lives (and by “vicious creature” I mean my slobbery shar-pei, Dozer Le Grunt who does nothing but sleep and now, apparently, chew $600 shoes that were put away, but not far enough away, from his drooling, droopy maw) and then, when every other cobbler said “no can do” as I brought them my sad, mangled little shoe my Fairy Godcobbler David was able to fix them! “Hallo hooray!” I chortled in my joy.
Today I wore them for the first time since the repair, and met a friend at my very favorite coffeeshop/cocktail lounge. Then, as I was leaving those hallowed, booze-filled grounds…SNAP!
My heel snapped off. Not my actual bodily heels –oh no, that would have been too simple. Wounds heal and I’ve got great insurance– no, the broken heel in question was the left heel of my beloved Atwoods!
Why?! Why me? I’m a good girl (after a fashion) I pay my taxes. I recycle plastics. What did I do to deserve such wretchedness? O YE CURSED FATES!!!
Now I’ve got some soul searching to do, because I cannot allow this to happen again.
Do I give up on the shoes, the dog, or the lunchtime bloody mary’s*?
Give me a minute. I’m thinking.
*Don’t look at me like that. They’ve got two olives, a green bean, pickled okra and peppers. It’s practically a salad.