Red lipstick and a pair of killer heels

EVER had one of those days where you wake up in the morning and you just *know* that it's going to be one of those days? The kind that's going to keep you on your toes, at the top of your game, rolling with the big dogs? I just had that intuition this morning. So, instead of the normal jeans-and-layered-work-blouses that I normally throw on, I did it up right. Pencil skirt, nice blouse, and a pair of killer high heels.

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I ran across them innocently sometime last week. I was blindsided. I wasn't out looking for love. I mean, I have fifteen pairs of shoes. I'm a committed lady.

There I was, schlepping around in my beloved and comfy pair of skater shoes, just walking by. I had to take the girls around town to find them some shoes to go with their Homecoming dresses, so we'd stopped at Payless Shoe Source. Oh, I should have resisted the temptation to step into that den of iniquity!

And there, on an endcap, they were. Three inches high and full of glory, thrusting their pointy toes out proudly.. boldly. The little hussies. It wasn't enough that they had those pretty peep toes, oh no. They had to flaunt their little skinny Mary Jane straps too. Right there in plain daylight.

I was lambasted. Hooked. Seduced. I tell you, it wasn't my fault.

I thought to myself "I'm just here to buy shoes for the girls." But they kept calling to me. I found myself running a hand over them, caressing them.

"I don't need any more shoes." Picked them up, felt their featherweight in my hands, saw how the glossy black patent heels flickered in the flourescent light.

"I'll just try them on...."

O, famous last words. Slipping into those heels was like coming home. My tennies looked up at me from the floor, tongues agape, scandalized. And there I was, just like that. Like a fish on the line, I handed over my little pink debit card in a rosy glow, eager to take those sweet little shoes home and make them mine.

Thank God I have an understanding husband.

BOGO is the tool of the devil.

In all fairness, I passed by several more pairs that called my name, but I did have the willpower to walk on by.

Could you resist?

And thank heaven Target was out of THIS pair that I saw online.

But, you know, this morning, I just felt the need to wrangle my pretties out of the closet and dress to the nines. Some days I wear my 'mom' hat. Other days I wear my 'construction inspector' hat. Today, I needed to wear my 'confident successful career woman' hat. Or make that, SHOES.

And it paid off. This morning after I answered three emails and a phone call, halfway into my first cup of coffee, I was called up to the front desk to talk down a disgruntled contractor. 6' something, built like a buffalo, he was trying to intimidate, but darnit, the shoes were speaking to me.

'Don't back down' they whispered.

I'm pleased to say he left without what he came for, which was the thought that he could come in and browbeat me into agreeing to something we both knew was against the rules, just so he could say later that I told him he could do it. Ah, NO. The killer high heels kept my back like steel, and I listened as the red lipstick said "Bring me in a design that works, and I'll approve it, but you won't be working until you have my approval." Thank him for his time, pivot on that heel, and stride away. Snap.

Wowza.

I never understood the shoe fetish before, but I seem to have fallen in its sway. There's a reason they say 'clothes make the (wo)man'. There's a sense of power in dressing nicely. An authority. The clothes come before you, making an impression that says 'I don't have to lie down for you'. I have always struggled with assertiveness, but when I put on a natty blazer, pressed slacks, and a pair of heels, I become another woman. And I like her, a lot.

A couple of nights ago my son tried on the outfit that he will be wearing to the dance. He looked at himself in the mirror up and down. Finally he said "Wow. These clothes really make me feel good. I look like somebody." I looke at him too, and underneath the floppy black emo hairstyle and the acne, I saw a thirty year old man, confident, stylish, assertive. Lean jawed and authoritative, he looked like a man to be reckoned with, a man who commanded respect.

I told him to remember that feeling, and hold on to it whenever he felt like taking the low road. In that moment, he had seen what his future could be, and he liked it. I liked it too.

I understand how he feels.