They’ll talk you into buying these shoes.
Unless you are over 50, unnaturally tan, and live in Palm Springs, you have no business putting these on your feet. I am none of the above and yet this frightening use of synthetic fur wound up in my closet. They screamed at me from the shelf at DSW when I was in a vulnerable state. They looked cheerful and fun. Why not just try them on? The fact that the toe is tapered to a point so severe even an elf couldn’t wear them, might have deterred me had a pair of strangers not happened by at the moment I was cringing in front of the mirror. “Oh my God, those are so cute! Where did you find them?” I pointed to the stack of satan’s footwear. “You’ve got to get those,” they gushed.
It wasn’t until a week later, when I unpacked at a hotel 500 miles from home, running late for a Bar Mitzvah in Los Angeles, that I realized just how evil those women were.
“You cannot wear those cougar shoes,” my son said. And by cougar, he was not referring to the animal print. The only other shoes I had with me were my utilitarian brown Clarks, just this side of lesbian loafers. I wore the cougar shoes.
All day long, I was sure people were staring at my feet and wondering why such a young, beautiful woman would want to look like Angie Dickinson at a Chippendales party. On top of that insult, by the time we left I was in such pain, I could barely toddle to the car.
These shoes are too offending to even put in my thrift store pile. I’ll have to find a special use for them. Planter? Doorstop? Lamp base? Dog chew? Maybe I should send them to Iran along with a case of Barbie dolls.
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