Did you know that in Tanzania men overwhelmingly prefer women with big feet? Neither did I, until recently, but apparently this fun fact is true. Unlike ancient China, where women were subjected to the "art" of foot binding, and the contemporary U.S., where squeezing into anything that is one size too small is the only way to go, it seems Tanzanian men like their women to be able to stand firmly on their own.

So, armed with this bit of valuable information and with Annabelle and Roo in tow, (Mr. Handsome was on a laser tag play date) late one afternoon last week I decided to go buy myself a pair of shoes.

Now, I am not what you would call a shoe fetishist. Not a freak for the foot, by any means, but I have to admit, I like leather. I have tried to go the other way, not just because of Cody, my vegan friend, but because I understand at the core of it how many cows may have died for my cause. And I've always loved the bovine. They may be stupid and have a limited vocabulary (it is hard to elaborate on, "moo") but they are sacred in India and I am multicultural in my approach to living. Or, at least I try to be. (I am still struggling with the proper way to eat Ethiopian food. I know you are supposed to sop it up with that spongy bread, but I've kind of come to wonder why, like at my favorite Chinese place, they can't at least offer you a fork.) Since Raoul the uber-chef handyman has been cooking Ethiopian food lately, I am getting help with my problem.

Anyhoo, we decided to go to Saks because their shoe department, though not as big as Barneys or as "exclusive" as Neiman's (that would mean unwearable in my book) is manageable with a four year old (ie: there is easy access to the outside in case of screaming.) I had intended to head for Tar-jay, which is my favorite money pit of choice these days, but Annabelle convinced me otherwise.

She told me that given everything that has happened over lo, these many weeks, I DESERVED a pair of really expensive, "fuck me" stilettos. Preferably with a red sole and a really high heel. And although I had no idea where the hell I would wear these perfect "fuck me" shoes (because no one except Jeffrey was doing that these days, and we are not talking literally) in my heart of hearts I secretly agreed.

Some would say that retail therapy might not be the best solution to my problems, and that I am a prime candidate for shrinkage because I seem to think it is. But hey, my husband fucked a prostitute who KNOWS ME. At the very least, I deserve a pair of unaffordable footwear.

So here I am in Saks. And there are at least, oh...I'd say TEN pairs of shoes that have my name written all over them. There are Lanvin flats (I assume the Tanzanian men might go for these) and strappy Miu Miu sandals for all those island vacations I'm not taking and the sexiest Fendis you could possibly imagine (for those many dates I have yet to have.) And the more I try them on (at some point, Annabelle has to take Roo outside because he could care less what I put on my feet if they aren't high tops to play midget basketball) the more I realize that the perfect pair of shoes could just possibly, send me traveling down a WHOLE NEW ROAD.

Like Dorothy and her ruby red heels, like Cinderella and the glass slipper (why I keep equating myself with Cinderella, I have no idea. For starters, I don't have a set of musical mice to clean the house and furthermore, I have no intention of just sitting around and waiting for my Prince), like every other woman who has put on her black Chloe boots just knowing they were the start of a whole new life, I now came to realize I was at a turning point here. All I needed to do was find the perfect pair.

Did you hear about that guy in Seattle who claimed he could change the molecular structure of water by having ten thousand people think about doing just that? The rules of Quantum Physics (I am a closet quantum-ist) and the laws of attraction suggest that you can actually determine something by thinking about it hard enough. You know, if you purge your negative thoughts and focus on the positive, then the positive will happen. So that's what I decided to do. I thought positive shoe thoughts. I thought about where those shoes would take me and who I would have sex with when I got there and how fucking fabulous my life and bone density (which is an issue when you're on a really high heel) was going to be.

And that's when I found them. It was as easy as that, really. I turned my head, away from the Manolos and the Sigerson Morrison's and the Prada kitten heels and saw them. They were calling out my name - beige, oddly (you would have thought they'd be black) with that magic red sole like Annabelle had promised, and a four-inch stacked heel on a platform sole. Like kismet, like the moment you fall in love, like musical magic across a crowded room, there they were.

I pulled the salesman aside and pointed at them. "Those," I whispered. I could barely get the words out, because really, how can you even express the joy and wonder you feel when you find the shoes that are going to walk you away from the crap you have been living and into something better than you ever imagined? How the fuck can you even begin to express that? "Size eight and a half," I managed to breathe. And I sat down. My heart was pounding. The salesman looked at me, quizzically. "Do you think you could wear a seven and a half?" I stare at him. Is he missing a brain cell? I just said "Eight and a Half." I am an Eight. And a Half. I am a woman that a Tanzanian man would love. I have big feet. The salesman shakes his head, pityingly. "I'm sorry ma'am. That woman over there just bought the last pair." "The last pair?" I manage to spit out. "Yes," he nodded solemnly. "In the country."

I catch my breath. No. This was not possible. The last pair in the country?! How could this be? (And who were all the women buying this ridiculously over-priced footwear? They couldn't possibly need them as much as me!!) The perfect pair of shoes was not going to elude me this easily. What woman? Who was she? Could I possibly snatch them out of her greedy little, Platinum Card carrying hands? All of a sudden, these shoes were everything. They were my past, present and most importantly, they were my future. The salesman stared at me. I have no idea what my face looked like at that moment, but I'm thinking it wasn't pretty. "Ma'am? We have other really nice platform sandals, if you're interested..." He trailed off, unconvincingly. He could see I would have none of it. "Um...ma'am?"

"Don't worry about it," I gurgle. This is bad. Since when did a pair of shoes become so important? And then the offending shoe thief turns around.

"Ma'am? Ma'am??" I can hear the salesman from a distance. But everything is happening like I am under water now. "Ma'am, perhaps you'd like to sit down..." I hear him talking to me, but I am focused on one thing and one thing only. The woman is coming towards me, the shoes in her hand. My breathing is rapid and shallow and I can't seem to speak a word. I see that she is a skinny woman. Spectacularly skinny and wearing blue jeans and an embroidered angel tank top that looks oddly familiar. "Esme? Esme, is that you?" She is closer now, and I can see the shoes in all their red-soled glory. My past, my present and my future. "Esme," she says sadly. "I've really missed you." And I stare at her, my eyes wide and disbelieving and trying not to cry. "Esme, say something." And I have nothing to say. Other than, "Shit. Shit shit shitty shit" (which is a lot to get out but believe, me, I manage.) Because the Concubine is standing in front of me holding MY FUCKING SHOES.

"Holy Crap." I turn around, and there is Annabelle, holding Roo's hand. Roo lights up. "La La!" he yells out. And he runs towards the Concubine and wraps his arms around her legs. I hold my arm out to steady myself, on something. On anything. My four year-old has his arms wrapped around the Concubine's legs and he's holding on for dear life. The Concubine looks helplessly from me to Annabelle. "I'm sorry," she manages to whisper. "I didn't know you'd be here."

At this point, I am pretty sure about one thing. I want those fucking shoes. I want them more than life itself. I want my child (MY child) to take his arms away from the Concubine's bony chicken knees and I want her fucking shoes because like everything else she has, they are mine.

I walk up to her. Really close. "Hello, Lucy," I manage to say. "How are you?" She doesn't know what to say to this one. (In the interest of full disclosure I should mention here that the Concubine and I used to be really good friends. Before she fucked my husband. Before she took what was mine. And I could care less that not all of what she took was worth keeping. It's the principle of the thing, if you fucking ask me.) "I'm sorry," she says. "Really, I didn't know you'd be here. You always said you hated Saks." I narrow my eyes. "Since when did you ever listen to me?" I mutter. Lucy starts backing away from me. I honestly think she's scared. I stare at the shirt she's wearing. The angel wings have started to fade a little from too much washing. "Is that the shirt I gave you?"

The Concubine stares down at the wings over her boobs. "Oh...yeah." She smiles, kind of sadly. "It's my favorite."

Annabelle has appeared next to me. "Roo, come here," she calls out. "We're leaving." "Leave with LaLa!" Roo yells out. Lucy blanches. Her face is pretty much without color, like a vampire. She leans down to Roo. "Roo, you go with your Mommy. I'll see you another day, okay?" Roo shrugs and sighs. "I want a donut," he says loudly. I look around the store, a little wildly. "Roo," I say, kicking into totally bad mom mode, "I promise you I will get you a donut as soon as we get out of here." With colored sprinkles?" he demands. I nod vigorously. "I'll give you two."

The Concubine pats Roo on the head and he wanders towards me. At this moment, I wish I had Annabelle's sage. My child needs to be decontaminated, my world needs to stop spinning and oh, yeah, I can't leave yet because the Concubine still has something that is mine.

"Nice shoes," I spit out. The Concubine looks down at the shoes in her hand. "You like these?" She looks up at me. I'm staring at her with my "You stole my husband out from under me" eyes. " "Give them to me," I say. "What?" She doesn't seem to understand what I'm saying. "I want the fucking shoes," I say to her. "I want them now."

I can hear Annabelle laughing under her breath. "You heard her, Lucy," she says. "She wants those fabulous shoes." (Fabulous or fucking, regardless of what anyone said, she got the point.) The Concubine looks from me to Annabelle to Roo, who is pulling on my hand and repeating, "Donut, donut, donut" as fast as he can." In my best imitation of quantum physics, I am thinking really hard about this. I am willing it. I am willing those shoes out of her hands and into mine. I am willing my fucking future away from the bitch that fucked my husband.

"Oh, well, I guess," she says. She holds out the shoes. I take them from her and without even looking at the price, I throw my credit card at the salesman who has been hovering this whole time. "The box is over there," she says, and she points across the floor. But I don't care about the box. I slip the shoes on. They fit perfectly. And it's better than fucking Cinderella. Because I am the one taking charge here. Not some Prince, not the Concubine, not Jeffrey or even Roo, but me and my big-ass size eight-and-a half feet that only a Tanzanian man could love. (And apparently Jeffrey, since the Concubine and I are clearly the same size.)

The Concubine stares at me like she's looking for something that she's lost. And I don't think it's the shoes. For a minute I think about telling her then and there about Jeffrey and the prostitute but for some reason, I think better of it. "Esme?" she says, haltingly. "I'd really like it if we could sit down and talk some time. If that would be okay." "Hah," sputters Annabelle. "You're delusional, Lucy. You always were."