Why can’t my heart mesh with my sole?

Love is a crazy thing.

Why is it that even when we know we’re making a big mistake, when we know there’s going to be a lot of disappointment, even a lot of pain at the end of the relationship, we still reach out and choose the wrong one?

Whenever I go out I always promise myself I’ll keep my head. This time I’ll settle for less, I tell myself. I won’t be blinded by looks. I’ll go for sensible instead of sensational. But time after time, in spite of my determination, I fall head over heels.

Sometimes I’m seduced by a sleek Italian, other times I’m captivated by the hard urban edge of a New York model. I believe them when they promise not to hurt me. But, when they do, and they always do, I’ve learned to smile through the pain.

I like them slim and well-made. And just a little sexy. Serious, but with a just little vamp. I want them to be soft enough to hug me, but not smother and bind me.

I want them to protect me, and hold me up without making me look as though I need the help.

I say I want them to stick around and stay with me for a long time; that I want them to grow old with me. But, truth be told, when they start looking worse for the wear, a little down at the heel; just when things get comfortable, I toss them aside and look for a new love.

I’m unfaithful. I can’t commit. I have a wandering eye. I’m always looking for the next best shoe. One that lives up to its promise and won’t make my hopes – and my arches – fall. And, Honey, let me tell you, a good shoe is hard to find.

Now, summer is here and that means pretty strappy sandals in unexpected colors, flirty kitten heels and high wedges guaranteed to make me (feel) tall and confident. This year, to make it worse, everywhere I go I see exotic little slippers covered with stones and jewels.

I confess I have no defense for that kind of thing. Caught in the spell, I don’t want to be practical or comfortable. I just want those shoes. So I skip lunch, skip a mortgage payment if that’s what it takes, to bring them home with me. I put in soft pads to cushion my feet and pads to protect my heels. I wear them around the house to break them in. On the carpet, of course. I get ready to cry because, sooner or later, it’s going to hurt.

Just once, why can’t what’s good for my heart be good for my sole?