This hasn't happened for a while. Probably not since the spring before last. There have been mild attractions and cases of need, but not an all-encompassing, immediate desperation to try and possess and own.
I know the lure. Its been the same since I was a child capable of choosing for myself. Its not height or shape, or purpose, but colour.
And that colour is red.
From crimson to cherry, burgundy to berry. Red does it for me every time. Last time it was a handbag. This time its boots. I knew when I ordered them in the brown and saw that they also came in both purple and red, that I shouldn't even allow them across the threshold of my house. I knew that if they came out of the box and found their way onto my feet, then all would be lost and they would never leave again. I didn't need red boots. I needed a pair of brown ones for work because at the rate I was wearing my new black boots, they wouldn't last until Christmas. I succumbed. Oh, weak and self-deluded flesh, I looked temptation in the eye, hesitated and buckled.
'What could be the harm?' I asked myself, stroking the page, mesmerised, already picturing them on my feet. 'Red or purple? I'll only try them. I won't keep them. I don't need red boots. And I already have purple boots. I could order the purple boots as well. Just to see the shade.'
Purple is rapidly becoming a neck-and-neck runner with red. Whatever it is, wherever it is, red and purple stop me in my tracks. Jumpers, wall coverings, bedding, dinner plates, Christmas tree decorations. Reds and purples offset with deep greens, or browns, or gold. Heaven!
Of course, the red boots arrived, along with five or so other pairs in brown to try. I opened the red boots first, carefully unwrapping them and laying them back down in the box on their paper nest. I would look at and try the brown boots first. These were the boots I needed. I'm a grown woman. I can exert some self control. The first pair were too high - I did that last year, determined that I would teach myself to walk in them. I'm fond of them. I still can't walk in them. They only go on when the furthest I'll be walking is from front door to car, car to front door, front door to seat. No stairs. At all. My ankles hate me for days afterwards. This pair was too small - whatever possessed me to order that size? I haven't been that size since I was 12! These were very nice, but felt odd when I walked in them. Between trying each pair of brown boots, my hand reached out to caress the supple leather of my Achilles' heel.
Eventually and with much reverence and ceremony, the red boots were held aloft, each in turn, examined from every angle and then slipped on. Oh, bliss! Oh, joy! They embraced my feet as though magical elven cobblers had placed each stitch in exactly the right place to offer me comfort. As my heart trilled the Hallelujah Chorus, I ran upstairs to my long mirror and examined them. I was lost. Smitten. The tiny voice that had perched on the farthest reaches of my shoulder alerting me to the folly of my actions was sent flying across the room with a flick of my finger, as if removing a gnat.
I returned to the mess and muddle of brown boots and boxes and wrapping paper in the middle of the living room floor. I picked the brown twin to my new love as my purchasing necessity and packed up the others to be returned. I then took my new red boots to meet a friend, who exclaimed, admired and advised the purchase of the purple pair as well, because, frankly they were a staggeringly good price, one could never have too many pairs of comfortable boots and, most importantly, I deserved them.
I might order them. Just to see the shade. After all, what could be the harm? I am a grown woman with self control. I can always send them back.
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