There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe  

Except in this story, the woman isn't so old. She's a late-20-something.

And she was living in a pair of shoes... a pair of Michael Kors shoes, to be exact.

Before I got pregnant with G, I was a bit of a shoe fanatic. Fabulously fantastic platforms, towering stilettos, and dainty ballerina flats; point-toed, rounded-toed, peep-toed; boots, sandals, and sling-backs-- I had them all. I loved them all. They were my first (and second, and third... and 40th) children.

When I got pregnant, something changed. First, I was already panicking about how on earth we'd every pay for labor & delivery, daycare costs, college (I think ahead). So the latest pair of Anne Klein pumps were no longer in the budget. But there was something else, too. Right before I conceived, my friend C's mom told me she'd gone up a shoe size during both her pregnancies. Up a shoe size? You mean, the precious Michael Kors platform slingbacks (a combination of my two most-favorite styles), the shoes I bought at a 75% off sale over tax free weekend literally three months before conceiving and wouldn't be back in style until the spring might not fit me in nine months?

Devastated wasn't a strong enough word to describe how I felt. Shoes had been the way I'd justified to DH an impromptu shopping spree. A shirt, you can only wear once a week-- maybe once every two weeks if it's particularly memorable. But shoes-- shoes you can wear two, maybe three times a week! They were like a good haircut, a stylish handbag, the right makeup: absolutely indispensible.

So I went on a diet-- a shoe-shopping diet, that is. For nine months, I didn't buy a single pair of shoes. Why bother? They wouldn't fit me in a few months anyway. So even as the humid summer of my third trimester wore on, and my feet swelled, leaving me with cankles, I refused to buy shoes. By the end, that left me with two options: my flip-flops, and a pair of driving moccasins. It was a fashion nightmare.

Once G was born, the swelling subsided, and my tennis shoes (I may or may not have five pairs of them) became a viable option once again. But the ominous foreshadowing by my friend's mother seemed to hold true-- my precious 7 1/2's no longer seemed to fit, they were too tight in the toe. For Christmas, all I asked for was a shopping spree for size 8 1/2's. I got my wish. And then-- literally-- weeks later, it happened.

By "it", I mean some how, some way, my feet shrunk. Suddenly, I was for all intensive purposes wading around in my new shoes and fitting perfectly into my old stand-bys. My go-to black dress shoes? Fit like a glove. The gorgeous pair by Carlos Santana? Slipped right now. My Michael Kors? Never looked better.

So now, a full two years after I first brought the beautiful white canvas peep-toe shoes with black piping and a spiky heel that's just to die for (did I mention I got them for 75% off?), I can finally wear them. And I do. I literally live in those Michael Kors. I am that not-too-old lady who lives in her shoes.