The Shoe of Melania Trump

It’s the last day of August. Did you know? Just wanted to remind you. I’m hoping Matt will join me for an extra super special Nashville edition podcast where we argue about whether or not another list of theological points is useful. I genuinely shocked him, yesterday, by even questioning the need for any such a statement. He spent the whole day explaining to me how I was lily-livered and wrong.

On the other hand, watching the left unfurl like an angry, bright, incandescent fly catcher made affection grow warm in my bosom for the statement. So we’ll podcast, and next week I will probably finally take a dive off the long pier of my hesitation into the wide puddle of the Danvers Statement. Maybe it’ll be amazing.

But I can’t do that today because I have a child that just divulged the contents of her stomach into a bucket, and two others who are screaming at each other, and two sad boys who are desperately trying to get the garbage to the side of the road before the truck arrives, and two dogs who are trying to overheat my person by sitting directly on me instead of next to me. None of my circumstances are conducive to delicate and nuance-laden thought.

No, the subject I most want to discuss at this particular moment is that amazing pair of shoes on the slender elegant form of Melania Trump. Did you see them? I gazed at them for quite a long time, wondering at the physics and biological properties of such a phenomenon.

What particularly fascinates me is, How Does She Do It? I tried on several kinds of shoes yesterday, in the hopes of gaining just an iota of height–I have a pair of trousers that I’m either going to have to hem, which is what I always have to do, or find shoes that will lift me about two inches up so that I am spared the usual humiliation. But it’s a terrible calculation, because if I really do find two more inches of height in a shoe, I will pay for every single moment in that circumstance with pain and sadness. I will look down at the beautiful shoe, rub the sore part of my muscle, look at the shoe, feel very sad, try wobbling a little bit longer around in a tight, harrowing circle, look at the shoe, and then finally give up and hem the wretched trousers.

How Does She Do It?! Truly, I want to know. What is the secret to wearing shoes like that and not actually dying? And along that same line, how does Kate Middleton kneel down to rebuke her child in heels that high and then stand back up again without falling backward? HOW?! I want to know. I want that gift. I want that secret knowledge. I want to be able to wear those beautiful beautiful pieces of art–or at least much cheaper knockoffs that are practically indistinguishable.

I want to be able to self identify as a six foot gorgeous woman in heels. That’s who I feel I really am. You may think I’m a five foot troll, but that’s just because you’re prejudicially refusing to see the real me. In my soul, in my essential person, I’m actually very tall, slender, and able to wear those shoes.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make a bonfire of my existing wardrobe. What’s that bonfire? The one of the vanities? Or maybe it’s a dumpster fire I am thinking of. Pip pip.