Not on a train, in supreme pain.
Not in a box, begging for socks.
I do not like metallic daggers poking from my shoe.
I do not like them Christian Lou.
To be clear, I have joined he Louboutin bandwagon and I bow down and worship to the shoe God just as much as the next fashion victim. The day I brought home my lipstick red soled beauties was a very good day indeed. And yes, they are torture to break in. Let me say it again people, TORTURE. But I suffered through it with hardly a complaint or a tear shed. I was stoic. They look beyond terrific. They make you feel like a graceful swan with shapely calves and teeny ankles. A graceful swan in agonizing pain mind you. This passes. They mold to your foot in around four wears, then your love affair with your shoes feels less masochistic. I’m not saying you’re ever going to run a marathon, or chase a toddler down the street in comfort, but come on, you can walk without having to fight the urge to fall into a heap while shedding tears and speaking in tongues cursing all french men, not simply those who make shoes.
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