I have to stop living on the edge like this. Buying these shoes last week--straight from the office on my last night of work (ie. HIGH), with the knowledge that they were the last pair, 60% off, and that I had 15 minutes to decide before Barneys closed their doors--it was kind of like getting bombed in Vegas the night you bust out of jail, getting hitched to some red-lipsticked seductress in a drive-through chapel and CROSSING YOUR FINGERS that she’ll be the woman you thought she was in the morning. Or umm, a woman at all. OH BUYER’S REMORSE, HOW I HATE THEE.
Of course, you never think of that at the time. No, at the time, you call your friends and whisper, "Guess who's in my shopping bag? LANVIN, baby!" You get high and have a photo shoot!
I’m thinking RED VELVET! I’m thinking white hotel bed! Flash photography! Very seedy, very Terry Richardson! Very Juergen Teller-for-Marc Jacobs!
I coughed myself awake the next morning, mascara under my eyes and rice plastered to my hot cheek, and EGAD, what had I done! I opened one eye with a squint and there were the Lanvin, looking all scrumptious and timeless in the dappled sunlight (but still sexy, with the perfect low heel and, indecent as it may be to admit, serious toe cleavage), so I felt like I’d scored Marilyn Monroe while wearing beer goggles.
I’m so bad, people. So bad.