So I had to buy new shoes to match the new job. Because Blundstones or Doc Martins don't quite cut it, and that's my wardrobe o'shoes eliminated pretty much right there. (Well, I have some sneakers, too. And some sandals. But even my fashion-compromised self knows that scrappy shoes ain't allowed at dressy workplace.)
Fine, I thought. Shoes. Smart girls shoes. I can do this.
I seem to have this talent, when attempting to shop for clothes or shoes, that sees me dissatisfied with everything on display. This is partly because of my very particular desires when shopping: I don't browse or window-shop. I go shopping when I know exactly what I need. This kind of top, a shoe with these features.
But the dissatisfaction is also due to my complete inability to understand the fashion calendar. It's the end of summer here. We haven't had a day below 20 Celsius for I can't remember how long; and if it gets as low as 20-25 Celsius it's because it's humid and a late summer thunderstorm is brewing. So why oh why are the shops full of cardigans, sweaters, long-sleeved shirts and thick pants? Why?
Buying ahead, yeah, sure, I get that. But seriously. It's like seeing Christmas decorations in October. Just a bit too keen, isn't it.
Surprisingly, despite all that, I managed to find a pair of smart girly shoes (that don't pinch my toes and don't have those hideous six-foot-pointed-toe design) with a minimum of actual fuss. Only two shoe stores, which is rather a record for me. But one thing I forgot to check: the soles.
Why do girls shoes always always always have slippery plastic soles? This drives me insane. No wonder I like my Blundstones and my Doc Martins. Seriously. In what bloody world are hard-plastic-soled shoes at all practicable? They're lucky to get a grip on a rough surface like the road, but on worn carpet and plastic matting and tiles and other such fun work floor surfaces…? No bloody hope.
The upshot of all this is that I had to pay extra for the shoe repair and key cutting man to put a non-slip sole on the shoes. Which of course means instead of the original $90 price tag, these teensy slips of shoes now cost me $125. Le sigh. (Maybe it's a conspiracy by the shoe reparing and key cutting men, to ensure they always have steady business?)