Nobody Walks in LA
Last night, my boyfriend informed me that his assistant had found the holy grail of shoe sales at the Charles David warehouse sale. Like, 2 pairs for $60, boots for $80 kind of sale. So this morning I turned into a nondescript office park cul-de-sac in Culver City and saw a sea of women the likes of which I haven't seen since first-year orientation at Smith College. There was no parking. For a moment I thought I'd actually have to walk a block or two and by LA standards that's just crazy talk.
Anyway, I finally found a parking spot and joined the throngs of agitated women lining up for the shoe kool-aid. It was kind of like being in a pack of hungry lions trailing the scent of dying wildebeest. No talking, unless it was on cell phones informing the rest of the pack where to go. Imagine an entire parking lot filled with tables upon tables stacked with shoeboxes. I am going to hell, but in my mind it resembled a Katrina-like shelter situation, only instead of sleeping bags and refugees, it was just TONS of shoes and crazy women. I joined my fellow wee-women in the size 5 section and then I realized something: I'm old. Back in the day, I had a pair of Charles David heels that were beyond painful to wear, but I sucked it up because they looked hot. Today, I looked through the high high heels, the bedazzled and bestudded piles of shoes and was like, "eh."
So I left the warehouse and with it, apparently my twenties. Is it just me or is this the natural progression of things? Now I don't care if shoes are on sale (well, I care a little) as long as they are reasonably comfortable. I'm not talking nun-shoes, but i just have to be able to walk in them for at least 15 minutes. That's a very long walk in LA.