"I said, in these shoes? I doubt you'd survive..."

Dear Friends At School,
I adore you all and have enjoyed your company immensely. However, I regret to inform you that you will never see me again, as I will not be returning to graduate school next semester. For I have fallen in love.


I know what you're thinking: it will never work out. This is fleeting. Once you commit to to these, it will only be a matter of time until a newer, shinier, younger pair of black, round-toed pumps catch your eye. But you're WRONG. This is different. It's special.


The reason that I can't simply relocate my relationship is simple; as I've learned in the past few weeks, the streets of upstate New York will be covered in some form of ice, snow, or dirty sludge until probably July. And while I'm not above wearing fancy clothes in the apartment (I've coded and done research in a black cocktail dress, not going to lie), I'm at a point in my life where I'm not interested in hiding my relationship from the world. Nor do I want to be the girl who ends up in traction because she wore stilettos to the bar and slipped on ice en route (although if I look good in the emergency room, then I'm kind of a little OK with that). I mean, please look at what the weather has done to my favorite jeans. Mangled.


I have been SO GOOD about cutting back on the heels lately, ever since I came to the realization this summer that "hey, lady...maybe you don't need to be 8 feet tall." And these babies put me in the upwards of 6'2 range. And it's NOT BECAUSE OF BOYS. Entirely. Look, I don't think I'm a traitor to my gender or statuesque women around the world just because I recognize that it's a distinct possibility that some guys don't want to date women who are a foot taller than them. And that's fine. Different strokes. It took me years and years to be cool with the idea of dating a guy my height or shorter. And I don't NEED to wear heels all the time-in truth, I think I overdid it with the espadrilles this summer. But OCCASIONALLY, I want to wear ridiculously impractical (and, let's face it, dangerous) shoes, and I will never be with a man who can not accept that (or who is not willing to go get the car for those times when the ridiculously impractical and dangerous shoes render me immobile and unable to walk across a parking lot).

Also...can you please notice the red DSW tag on the bottom of the shoe (also, note my makeshift makeup table that I have commandeered in my parents' basement over break):
Because they were 70% off of the sale price. Eighteen dollars, friends. It would have been foolish NOT to purchase them*.

*Please remind me of this when I am an 80 year old woman, hobbling around on knees without cartilage and non-functioning Achilles tendons.