Elevator Talk

She held the door open for me. Twice. She was on the short side, casually dressed. We were headed to the same floor. We smiled politely.

She looked down at my shoes. Red patent-leather heels that I continue to covet even though I own them, even though they reside in my own closet. She stared. I mistook this stare for admiration. Because I would admire them. I still do. Finally she said, "Aren't your feet going to hurt by the end of the day?"

What I wanted to say, but didn't, was, "Do you know how long I've waited for a day like this? Do you know how sad I am that their box has been collecting dust on my closet shelf for months??" What I wanted to say was, "What is the point of nice weather if I can't wear cheerful shoes that make me happy?" What I didn't say was, "These are exactly the kind of shoes that every woman should own and wear at least once a season no matter the occasion." What I wanted to tell her is that any small amount of pain is totally worth the ego boost they provide me with all day.

What I did say, with a shrug, was, "Eh. I'll be sitting most of the day anyway."

Because, clearly, the fact that she even had to ask that question shows that she doesn't get it. She doesn't get me. She doesn't respect The Shoe.

This is why people shouldn't talk on elevators.