It's Me, Sara Louise

I have worn heels a couple of times since being here, literally, I think twice. Once to dinner in Avignon and once to the Raclette party at Papa’s house. In almost seven weeks, that’s just not cutting it. And any other time I’ve busted out a fancy shoe, the Boyfriend will glance at my feet and ask with a quasi-embarrassed look if I am wearing those.

Yes I am. So what? I believe I was wearing 4.5 inchers when we met so what exactly is the problem?

And you know what? I bite my tongue when I look at his footwear, because some of which look like they serve some sort of orthopedic function. Not mine. Mine scream, “Bring on the bunions bitches!”

My shoe collection is one that any girl could be proud of (unless you’re Mariah Carey) and I’ve worked hard for my shoes. But the other day while vacuuming the bedroom I saw that some of my stilettos were dusty. Dusty! Neglected and dusty! That is not ok. The only dust I want on my shoes is from being out on the street (that sounded very prostitute like, I apologise), not idle, sad and lonely dust. They’ve become pathetic and I will not have pathetic shoes.

I love my shoes. Hell I can run a full sprint in stilettos, but here in Le Petit Village, my stilettos just stare at me wondering when they are going to go out and play. But somehow I don’t think my leather leggings and snakeskin hidden platforms would go over well at the épicerie when I’m buying my baguette. But you know what? They already think I’m a bit crazy moving here with the Boyfriend, giving up my career and not speaking French. So maybe I should just bust them out. They’re going to think what they think anyway, right? Might as well introduce them to the real me. Because seriously, the sweater, skinny jeans, and ballet pumps I’ve been sporting almost everyday lately is leaving me a little BLAH. And I’ve never been BLAH. As a child my footwear was inspired by Punky Brewster and as an adult, the great S.J.P. so no point in changing now.

And here it is, I’m only a three hour train ride from Paris, fashion mecca, home of the red-soled genius that is Christian Louboutin, and 140 miles from glamorous Cannes so sod it. I’m taking out my shoes. Le Petit Villagers will just have to get used to it. And get used to me.