Charming, but single

My dating life is, like, nonexistent for any number of reasons. My shoe collection? Expanding at a dangerously fast pace. Meet the newest members of the family, both from Nine West, a store from which I am banned until at least September. They are stunning -- a pair of bronze sandals with a heel so high that I'll only be sitting in them and a pair of chocolate brown espradrilles for all of those summer barbecues and casual Fridays. I was sucked in by the salesgirl, who tried to hook me with the "I am your friend!" technique that has been employed on women who are "just window shopping" for centuries. She first tried the, "I own these shoes and they are soooo comfortable" line, but I knew that was a lie because there is no way in hell that those bronze heels are comfy. The heel is twisted for crying out loud. I won't even lie. Every night I wear those I'll probably want to saw my own foot off with a hacksaw. But I love them and I feel amazingly hot in them. And love and ego can make you do funny things. So, when I didn't fall for the "I have these!" line, she tried the, "You deserve these, you look like a hard worker." Really? My jeans-and-tank-top-wearing self looked like a hard worker? I had no idea that a white tank top was so telling. Then she tried the friend technique, including crawling on the bench where I was sitting and trying the shoes on and plopping down next to me like we were at a slumber party. As a former retail lady, I know what lengths you'll go to double your sale. And I don't blame her for selling to me, because that's her job. She sells and I pretend like I'm not going to buy the shoes and wrinkle my nose at the prices and she tries her lines and I deflect them. I was about to set the espradrilles down and only get the sandals when she threw all she had at me. I was wistfully looking at the shoes, about to put them away, when she said, "I'm so glad you're getting the sandals, because I can tell that you love them. So many people say they love shoes, but they don't ever buy the shoes they love. I just don't understand that." It was a line, a blatant line, a line akin to every line a man's ever thrown at me at a bar or party. And instead being drunk on alcohol, I was drunk with sights of rope heels and cork soles and bronzed leather and shell accents. And I took the bait hook, line and sinker. I took the shoes off and slid the espradrilles across the bench to her, mentally calculating the price of both pairs. "I love these too," I said as I fished my wallet from my purse.