"Ow. Ow. Owowowow."
I had worn these boots all day—flats, yet—and my feet had no reason to complain. But promptly as soon as they were put to work at a 7 pm outing, my toes, heels, soles, etc. began to yelp.
We are living in the Shoe Dark Ages, I sadly informed Ma as we fruitlessly circled various department stores' shoe floors. Most pumps possess 3+ inch heels, too high for her comfort. Those that do sport reasonable heels are also dated in style: every angle is pointy, with sharpened edges that could double as a murder weapon.
Then, if a magically perfect shoe is rapturously discovered, there is the comfort factor, which, of course, is never truly realized until the shoe has actually hit pavement and is thus rendered unreturnable.
Joyce Wadler hysterically describes the shoe crisis in "Sound Like a Great Place, but Can We Get There by Shoe?"
Your average high heels may feel comfortable in the store, where they put chemicals in the air to deaden pain, but they are not really designed for walking. Compound that problem by shopping for shoes when you are tired, and it’s like those submarine movies where the sailors are running out of oxygen and become delusional.
But the real sadness is that I shall not yet sacrifice form for function. There are the most stunning footwear in my closet marked with my blood, and I do intend to don them again if the situation should arise. Eh, what's a few hours of crippling agony.
Well played, shoe industry. Well played.