If I owned these Salvatore Ferragamo crocodile kitten heels, I am pretty sure they would transform me into a different person.
The type of person who wakes up at seven, puts her (sleek, not frizzy) hair into a ponytail, and goes for a run.
The type of person with a tasteful array of throw pillows on her (always perfectly made, with hospital corners) bed.
The type of lady who goes on dates to Bemelmans instead of 169 Bar, who reads every section of the Sunday Times and not just Travel and Sunday Styles, the type of lady who never lies to her friends that she’s “five minutes away!!” when she knows it’s actually twenty.
I am pretty sure that if I owned those shoes, my cat wouldn’t shed nearly as much. My computer keyboard wouldn’t be as grimy.
My closet would instantly arrange itself in neat little compartments in order to accommodate them, like the nursery tidies itself up in Mary Poppins.
In these shoes, my hair would never get stuck in my lipgloss, I’d always have an umbrella, I’d never leave hair ties casually around my wrist, I’d stand up straight, and always remember to tilt my body at an angle for pictures.
I’d wear them in the fall with jeans and a black tshirt and a scarf, and go to a cafe to write. And the patent will catch the light as I cross my legs, and reflect it right into the eye of the (attractive, available) gentleman sitting at the table next to me. And then, momentarily distracted from his own work, he’ll glance at my computer and start to read the (brilliant, original) script over my shoulder and he’ll clear his throat and say, “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but I’ve been reading your script and I think it’s just about the most hilarious and moving piece of drama I have ever read. I happen to be looking for something just like it to produce myself. Say, are you free for drinks tonight? Bemelmans, maybe? And, before you ask: No, I’m not Jon Hamm, I just happen to look exactly like him.”
So, I should probably save up and get the shoes, right?