The Dream Deferred

Say there's a cute guy you keep seeing, maybe at the coffee place or your grocery store. He's not just cute -- he's absolutely hot, completely your type, totally rocks your world. He notices you, too, gives you a shy smile, perhaps even a little witty banter is exchanged in front of the Cheese of the Week display. You find yourself thinking about him all the time, indulging in little fantasies about your relationship, your life together... Pretty soon you're sure he's the perfect man for you and your life isn't going to be complete until he takes you in his arms and makes you his. And finally, it happens! One of you works up the crickets to actually propose getting together on a date! You both seem delighted by the idea, and you spend the following week planning your wardrobe, choosing your fragrance, hoping to heaven you have a good hair day. You paint your toenails. You even shave your legs.

And then you go out. And then you come home. Alone. And as the door closes behind you, you feel the poignant loss of another shattered dream. 'Cause he's just not right for you. It didn't... click. He's not actually that funny (the witty banter must have been a fluke or a product of the manhattan you had at happy hour), or he watches the wrong news channel (if ya know what I mean), or he lets slip a few disparaging remarks about his ex that make you raise one of your perfectly-tweezed brows in mild alarm. Whatever it is -- it just doesn't fit.

Here's my dream man:


Manolo Blahnik Camparis. The "Urban Shoe Myth" shoe. Imagine them in black patent. I've been hungering for this shoe for far longer than any of Britney's marriages have lasted. And this weekend I finally marched into Saks and unshod my dainty (ahem) foot and slid one on, determined to take this Perfect Specimen home with me.

They don't fit.

Not the 39s, not the 39.5s, not the 40s. They are extremely narrow in the toe box, much narrower than I expected them to be based on other Manolos that have been on my foot. Narrow to the point of pinchy discomfort. Perhaps this means I am not the Shoe Lover I profess myself to be, perhaps if I were truly dedicated to the Art of Fine Foot Fashion mere discomfort would not deter me. Alas, I am one of those principled idiots who feels if I splash out that kind of money for a pair of shoes I should be able to wear them without tears.

I tried on these Miu Mius as a consolation prize:


These are fierce shoes, they are unbelievably sexy. This photo seriously does not do them justice -- they are incredible. They are so damn sexy that in order to wear them and not look like I'm auditioning for a burlesque show whatever I was wearing would have to basically be stolen from my Grandma Stella's wardrobe (which ran heavily to polyester pantsuits and printed cotton snap-front dusters). And I have to admit, I'm still thinking about them. They are seriously, distractingly sexy. Those shoes are a weapon.

But they are not the same. They are not my Perfect Man in shoe form, like those Camparis.

I am crushed, I admit it. I'd built those shoes up in my head until they were true love, a cure for cancer, and the gold medal for the biathlon all in one. My idol lies in dust at my feet.

And so, I am once again living the lesson that I have learned over & over again throughout my adult life: you may think he's the Perfect Man, but if he's not right for you, he's just not right. Perfection, believe it or not, is relative.

All is not lost, however. I think I have a line on a pair of Pangalas. Cue the swelling, romantic music that indicates the consummation of long-delayed passion. I grow dizzy at the thought.

Photos: NeimanMarcus.com, style.com