"I don't know if I can sell these," my friend said, walking the white carpet from her second huge walk-in closet and into her first walk-in closet. She was teetering on a pair of truly gorgeous Jimmy Choo snakeskin heels. I wouldn't have been able to sell them either.
Then again, after the second ankle surgery, her orthopedic surgeon had warned her that if she wanted to avoid further ankle surgeries, she'd ease up on the six inch stilettos. The surgery had been a couple months ago. The Choos were very recent purchases.
Why did she buy a pair of $500 shoes if she knew she couldn't wear them?
"I thought having them would motivate me," she answered tottering dangerously on her wobbly ankle with its white scars.
But here were these shoes, mesmerizing, taunting. "Trust me," they seemed to whisper like the serpent in the Garden. "If God didn't want you to wear high heels, why would he make your legs look so damn good in them?"
The clothes, piled on the bed like a massive pile of trapper's pelts, were the same sort of : gorgeous, expensive suits, sexy little skirts, elegant, glam cocktail dresses--with the mind-blowing tags still fluttering--all in incredibly small sizes.
She is stylish and petite. But the clothing was invariably, perpetually at least 2 sizes too small. Where would she get that much spare flesh to lose?
Don't get me wrong--I'm not complaining. Even splitting the profits with her, I'll do very well selling these clothes on eBay. But it is a little heartbreaking, isn't it?
The clothes are like these gorgeous carrots, hanging on the end of a stick. But does it really get you going, or do you, like me, just sit down and put my head in the feedbag and give up?
If we're going to pay that much for clothes, they should fit who we are right now. Oh, sure, the weight will come off. But by the time it does--let's face it--that LaCroix will be out of style, sweetie darling.
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