Letter to my footwear

Dear new shoes,

*Sigh*  Where to begin?  I had such high hopes for you.  You were exactly what I was looking for: funky black flats for walking around in.  Good with skirts, good with pants.  You know, versatile. 

I loved you and I took you home, and started to break you in, and you performed really well in and around my apartment.  All those trips to the corner store and you never let on that trouble was brewing.  So when I left the house this morning to walk around all day, I expected you'd be your typical comfortable selves. 

I did not expect for you to get pissed off somewhere around F Street and start attacking my heels with razor blades and machetes.  I did not expect to have to hobble around for hours, cursing myself for not having the taxi fare to get home, and cursing the nasty dirty DC sidewalks for being too nasty and dirty for me to take you off and walk home barefoot.  Which I was tempted to do.  Because you suck. 

And now my heels are cut to ribbons and I will have to wear flip-flops all week while they heal.  Plus I have a dilemma: do I take you with me on that big work trip next week, as I had wanted to do, or will you hurt me again?  If you tell me that today was a one-time thing, the final breaking in stage, I will believe you, because you are so cute.  You really are.  And you know it.

What the hell, I'll bring you along.  I'll just carry my flip-flops around for back-up.

Let the healing begin.
--supine