Before our trip to Manhattan, I informed my boyfriend that I am the worst tour guide ever. I wanted no surprise when we accidentally ended up in a borough. (Yes, we did. Still not sure how.) But we did manage to find Central Park, the Met, Ralph Fiennes – and the shoes.
I restrained myself admirably as we strolled Fifth Avenue, Madison Avenue, and the Villages. Only occasionally would I break from my spirited discourse about the importance of dwarf horses in ancient Chinese philosophy to plaster myself against a store window and drool over a Christian Louboutin heel or a sweet little example of Miu Miu perfection.
I didn’t truly crack until Soho, where something shiny caught my peripheral vision and I paused, mid-step and mid-sentence. My boyfriend turned to find me staring into a shop window, bathed in what I’m quite sure was a beam of heavenly light. Without even a sigh, he mentioned my upcoming birthday and suggested I choose myself a little something. If that isn’t true love from a man who detests shopping, I don’t know what is.
We walked in, I picked up the left shoe* and our relationship moved quickly from “You’re cute” to “Want to come home with me?” to “I will never let you out of my sight, ever again, because I love you that much.” Much like my relationship with the boy – even though he’s far less pink and shiny.
*They’re Campers. Check out their wacky “imagination walks” website at