It is beautiful but I am dismayed by the resurgence of the roman sandal. They were cool in the 80s when I was in high school and seem to be “cool” again. Between them and gauchos, the phrase “if you don’t remember history you are doomed to repeat it” become so apropos.

Oh honey, no.

My 4th grade teacher, who had a foot-high beehive and a fondness for paisley caftans, would have loved those sandals. I, however, do not.

Tacky gold straps and jewels notwithstanding, the eensy little heels freak me out. How does one walk in them? Although I suppose if one can afford $1,300 sandals, one can also afford to be borne about on a palanquin…

This particular permutation of the Pucci, it does not, as the Manolo likes to say, “make the smiles.” It makes me cringe.

Teetering precariously on a tiny peg, whilst having the toes cleaved and the ankle strapped and swaddled uncomfortably and gladiator-esquely, by gold studded leather… no, grazie.

This is not to say, however, that I would wear a Croc instead. If given the choice, I admit I would choose Pucci torture over Croc comfort.

Oh, I like them – I think wearing them would make me feel deliciously decadent – in a “Bring me another peeled grape” sort of way. They’re just wonderfully over the top.

These would go smashingly with some of the gladiator-esque wedding gowns put forth by Reem Acra a few years back.

No. Bad heel. Bad!

The Sarah, she has one word for these sandles:

Robo-hooker.

I have to say, if I saw them at Ross for the nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, I would probably laugh at them and keep walking.