Falling Flat of Expectations

Today I must confess a bit of stiletto blasphemy- for the past year, I have been on a quest for the perfect pair of flat shoes. Not for any practical reason as comfort, but out of one very painful fact. Hate to air my dirty laundry, but I am afflicted with a foot defect. No, they're not webbed, just bunioned. I refuse to accept the blame- really, how much damage can one inch-wide pointy toeboxes and 4 inch heels do? After all, a bunion is an arthritic joint, mine came courtesy of my mother's pedigree. It's in our genes, and I don't mean the True Religion variety. And, contrary to popular belief, the search has not been sensible. I started with a $750 strappy ballet slippers from Christian Louboutin. At the risk of provoking Monsieur Louboutin's wrath, the weaved strings fell apart after one short walk in the rain. The ankle straps may have lent an authentic dancer's air, but they took more time to tie than painting mascara on my nonexistent lashes. One last complaint- unless your feet have no arch, a too flat sole is as unnatural as an exagerrated one. Next came a simple pair of vanilla colored Miu Miu's, but the short toebox made me feel like I was getting a Chinese foot binding. I then decided to stop hemorrhaging my wallet and working-class it with a slightly too golden pair of Aerosoles. Turns out I'm not completely snobby for patronizing the bourgeois designers. Finally, as with missing keys, I found what I was looking for in the last place I looked. A quilted red pair of patent London Soles that would make even Dorothy proud. Alright, they're a bit "Upper East Side lady who lunches for a living," but they're soft, roomy, and a little Chanel.
Still, I stand in defense of my elevator shoes without which I could never reach the top market shelves. Case in point, I tripped on some steps today- in my flats.