Sorry about yesterday. Those shoes were so comfortable when I was just standing around the apartment, but after walking six blocks I knew I'd made another terrible shoe-based vacation mistake*.

*The historic First Terrible Shoe-based Vacation Mistake happened on that trip to Paris -- I didn't include it in my post but somewhere there's a picture of me walking down the Champs d'Elysees barefoot and carrying my red Kenneth Cole sandals by the evil fucking straps that had rubbed my ankles raw. Eventually I limped into, inexplicably, a French surf shop and bought a cheap pair of Roxy flip-flops that made me miserable in a new way, by rubbing the tender skin between my toes raw instead, and giving Jack license to mock me for the rest of my life.

"Are you sure you want to wear those shoes?" he said warily yesterday afternoon. I'd been tromping around in a perfectly useful though ancient pair of Barney's Outlet black leather sandals all day, but evening was coming on and so I switched to my new orange patent leather low-heeled Steve Madden Lady Shoes. The first couple of blocks were okay, but it didn't take much longer than that for me to realize that breaking in a new pair of shoes without wearing socks or carrying Band-Aids was a mistake. It's the type of very predictable mistake along the lines of "God, why am I all bloated and in a bad mood? Jesus, this sucks." And the next day you get your period and you're not carrying any tampons with you and you go, "Oh, right."

So there I was yesterday afternoon watching capoeira in Union Square and thinking: "Gee, my new shoes are giving me blisters after walking three blocks, hmm, what am I going to do? I'm certainly not going to tell Jack, that's what."

After shuffling through Whole Foods like a person afflicted with some sort of flesh-eating foot-based leprosy, at the check-out I finally admitted to Jack that some sort of basic first-aid might be appropriate. We got out onto the sidewalk and started walking the four blocks home. "I could go in there for Band-Aids," I thought, limping past a Duane Reade. Jack pointed at a Foot Locker. "Just buy a pair of sneakers you can wear for the rest of the trip."

I was in full-on martyr mode, though, and would have no truck with any solution that involved spending money. Finally, Jack employed the foolproof Champs d'Elysees Strategy and said, "Just take off your shoes and walk barefoot. Jackson, you scan the sidewalk for broken glass."

We also added lit cigarettes, dog poo, and fresh wads of chewing gum to Jackson's watch list. The sidewalk on Fourteenth Street was comfortably warm yesterday evening, and my feet surprisingly clean when we got home.