Do You Have This In My Size?

The battered feet of the SJG got a workout yesterday, trying on high heel strappy sandals in a big warehouse store.  Any shoe with a heel makes me feel like I'm playing dress-up in Mom's closet.  Any heel over two inches makes me feel like I'm on stilts.  Any stiletto makes me feel like a streetwalker.  This is problematic, considering every freakin' shoe out there these days is Heidi Klum high and getting higher.  Every shoe on the market makes you tower over the world like a Glamazon.  And that's just standing still.  Walking in them?  That's too advanced for the SJG.  So, you wonder, why must I torture my soles with this nonsense?  The explanation is simple.  I have three parties to attend in November.  For the SJG, who never goes anywhere but the market and the gym, this is a big deal.  There's the Bar Mitzvah back east.  (New York is still deciding whether to let me back in, after all that kvetching I did over the scaffolding, but I'm pretty sure it's a lock.)  There's the fancy dinner at the Hilton honoring my big shot cousin, Mr. Andy Kaplan.  There's the black tie wedding at the Four Seasons.  That's a lot of dress-up for me.  I have enough trouble finding my workout clothes in my closet.  Three outfits and fancy shoes to go with?  If they're in my closet, they're outdated, uncool and qualify me for the Fashion Hall of Shame.  Not to worry.  I've met my wardrobe needs. I basically cornered a nice lady at a boutique in Studio City and said, "Help me, I'll pay retail.  Help.  Me."  She was so gifted, this fashion maven, putting outfits together, teaching me I can still look hip and happening and bohemian chic, that I hugged her until she told me to stop.  But what about the shoes? There she was of no help, whatsoever.  Off I went to the afore-mentioned warehouse, after bombing out at the department store, where they carry nothing in my size, and served myself at the shoe buffet.  I tried one of these and one of those.  As usual, I tried on too much.  Sandal after ridiculous sandal.  I strutted through the store, waving at strangers, just to see if I could hold my own without falling down and/or crying in agony.  One pair of glittery Hooker heels almost made it to the register, until I heard weeping and realized it was coming from me.  Finally, I settled on some really boring black satin sandals to see me through the Bar Mitzvah-thon.  If I can stand, walk and dance without spraining an ankle, I'll have accomplished something substantial in my life.  If I can't, eff it, I'm wearing flats to the other two events.