I mean, damn. That was supposed to be me.
That was legitimately the only thing I could think of when I saw WWD declare that hundreds of women put off voting to indulge in Manolo Blahnik’s semiannual sample sale.
First of all, more power to all of the ladies who obtained their rightful place as owners of what I’m sure were breathtaking shoes and voted because, dammit we can do both. I particularly admired the one woman who displayed her keen decision making skills by pointing out that babysitters are necessary for epic sample sales and not so much for voting, a notion I completely respect. I hope she found a bomb pair of shoes.
Unfortunately, it simply wasn’t destined for me.
It was all good just a week ago when my editor slid me the golden ticket that was the invitation to said event while she fondly remembered snagging her first pair of lime green Manolo beauties.
We laughed as we looked at her obligatory blog post circa 2011 where she squealed about scoring the loud yet oh-so-prefect markers of true fashion girl status.
A distinct warmth came over me as I realized this was her passing the baton on to me. I felt so good I pitched a story right then and there about finally obtaining my first pair of designer shoes.
And then I saw it — the forsaken date of the sale seemed to suddenly pop off of the blue paper.
Why the hell would they have it on Election Day? Didn’t they realize how important this was? Was this some kind of joke?
But it was not. And it was no one’s fault but my own. Manolo didn’t tell me to miss the date for New York voter registration. The Blahnik family had nothing to do with the fact that I’d have to go to DC where I’m registered to help bring this circus of an election to a final close.
So now here I am drinking bland Chardonnay courtesy of Amtrak’s food cart wondering what level of adult I’m on based on this here mishap.
Am I rising in the ranks based on my super responsible decision to trek home to fulfill my American duty? Or am I on a slippery slope because seriously I could have knocked two very important birds out with one stone had I properly prepared?
Is this even a good marker of adulthood? Has the pain of missing out on a stunt-worthy pair of shoes just gotten to me and this isn’t even a conversation worth having? I don’t know.
As I finish up this Chardonnay (which I may have judged too quickly) the truth is setting in. I need to get my shit together and some Manolos — and maybe getting the Manolos will signify that my shit is indeed all together. In the meantime though, I’m trying and I voted so 2 points for me in this game of life.
UPDATE: Considering the outcome of this election, I most definitely should have figured out a way to ease the pain with a new pair of Manolos. *Heavy Sigh*