Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Holes in my Soles

After a day gallivanting around the Art Institute in my boots I came home and worked to take them off. Only that didn’t work so well, and basically they fell apart in my hands. This annoyed me. I really loved my damn boots and after the three different repairs they had already been through, I was loathe to part with them at all. As it happened, one early-release-from-work day, I got a rather strong hankering for lobster bisque and found a place downtown that would satisfy all my urges. The atmosphere was nice, the server perhaps a little too energetically focused on my breasts, and the bisque good. I realized that the location put me not that far from Watertower Place, which meant not that far from the Cheesecake Factory, which meant not that far from low-carb cheesecake. As it had been a good six months since my last piece of low-carb cheesecake, I figured why not?

I hopped across the street and worked my way down to the dark bar of the Cheesecake Factory, where a) you can eat food and b) no one under 21 is allowed (fist pump). I had some nice quiet cheesecake in the dark, after which I figured I’d head on my merry way once I found the loo. What I discovered as I meandered through the halls of the of Watertower Place was a little hole-in-the-wall shoe-repair place not unlike many of the hole-in-the-wall shoe-repair places run by ajjushis back in Korea. I figured this was a good chance to see if perhaps, maybe, wishful thinking, this guy could fix my boots.

“Can you do zippers and sole repair?” I asked.

“Honey, I’d have to see the shoes first, and then I can let you know.”

A week later I walked back in, shoes in a bag and laid out my problems.

“Oh honey, yes and no. The zippers I can do, but these soles, yeah, once they wear out they are done for good. I can fix the zippers if you want, though.”

I debated.

“Fix the zippers.”

The sole is a bitch, but I can wear them just fine, just maybe not in the rain or snow. Still, I hate to give the damn boots up. In the meantime, I had to face a rather singular reality: I was going to need new shoes.

I fucking hate shoe shopping.

Really, no; I loathe it.

But since my boots were dying, I didn’t really see how I had any choice, so I went online, scoped out the nearest Doc Martin store and plotted how I was going to handle the search for shoes.

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