Urge to Meow

A little leopard on an otherwise conservatively dressed lady says, “lady in the street, but freak in the bed” (shout out to Usher). Isn’t that what all men want?

I used to think leopard print was something only trashy girls wore. Now I know the truth. Leopard print—in moderation—can be the definition of sexy.

When I bought my first leopard shoes, I was on a kick. I had just purchased a leopard belt.

Soon after I bought a pair of leopard boots.

But the shoes I bought in the middle clinched the pennant in the World Series of sexy.

They were fuzzy, which is always a plus—the better to rub along skin.

They were pointy, another plus—the better to poke and hint at a hidden rough side. They were on a deep sale.

And best of all, they were way, way, way too small. I am a size 7 on a good day, 7.5 if I drank too much the night before. These shoes? They were a size 6.

No matter, I thought. Style is pain.

Did I consider special ordering another pair? Perhaps trying a different store? Nope. Not for a second.

I wanted these shoes and I wanted them yesterday. Besides, I always kind of wondered why those stepsisters in Cinderella did not just jam their feet into the shoes.

After all, it always worked for me at Saks’ annual sales.

I forked over the $150. What was a little discomfort compared to saving $200 off retail?

Later that night, I wore them out for the first time. At first, I felt fierce. I had the urge to meow at passersby.

Soon, however, my feet were aching, my toes were numb and I had to walk with a limp. I leaned on my husband. What was sexy an hour ago was now crippling. I started to understand why foot binding is so frowned upon in China.

“Why did you buy those shoes?” He asked for the fourth time that day. Never one to be trifled with, I explained: they fit in the store, dammit! I am nothing if not a good liar.

But, alas, they did not.

That night, my feet looked like I had taken a walk on a cheese grater—barefoot.

Lovingly, I placed the shoes in their box.

And there they have stayed, except for one brief moment in the sun last year when I was six months pregnant. I brought them out to see if I “still had it.”
I still had it. I still had “it” along with seven blisters.


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