Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk and mightily ungruntled.
Indeed, it may be said that now is the summer of your discontent, made gloomy winter by that son of the so-and-so, whom you have been dating for this past month.
Oh, it all started out well enough; him tall, moderately handsome, tanned, and somewhat hairy in that outdoorsy way that makes dirty cargo shorts and Keen sandals seem sexy, especially when you are standing behind them in the Whole Foods Market.
Next thing you know, you are at the coffee shop lying about your politics and discussing the relative merits of recumbent bicycles with him over tall glasses of iced chai.
And for the first week everything goes swimmingly, even if the thought of tofu-vegetarian lasagna makes you gag, and you frequently worry that he might detect the scent of your usual lunch ( cheesesteak, “Whiz, wit“) lurking beneath your body spray.
By the end of the second week, however, you have discovered the awful truth, that his low-impact, ecologically friendly lifestyle is actually camouflage for the deep and abiding parsimoniousness; the pinchpenny cheapness so mean that he has never bought salt, sugar, ketchup, or mustard for home use, relying instead on the giant cache of pilfered condiment packets which reside in his cabinets, ever ready to season his “famous” lentil stew.
At first you think this trait is funny, because his eyes have this unusual purpley-blue color that reminds you of mountain lupin, and fogs your better judgment. But then, this past Friday, you realized that not only had you gone Dutch so often that you could apply to Amsterdam for citizenship, but that he had the bad habit of “forgetting” his wallet at home.
Even this would not be so awful, except that he was also, at the same time, revealed as the sanctimonious bore, forever going on about “out of control American consumerism”, (although when you mentioned Thorstein Veblen, whom you find terribly amusing, his lupin-blue eyes went blank with incomprehension).
But it was on Saturday, while he was ranting away about the “malign influence of fashion”, that you finally snapped, and told him exactly how much your Jimmy Choo sandals cost–“More than you’ve spent on personal hygiene products in a decade, Tofurky Boy.”– which left him gibbering in amazement and spluttering in anger.
Okay, so perhaps that was uncalled for, even if it did make you feel immediately better.
And now it is Monday and you are consumed with remorse for the three-and-the-half weeks you wasted on this crunchy loser and his skinflint ways.
But then you remember that nothing washes away the bitter taste of romantic disappointment like shoes, beautiful and riveting shoes, like these simple summery, golden Linea Rossi Sport sandals from Prada.