Lust

Your heart pounds.  Feasting your eyes on the object of your lust.  If only.  Imagination running wild with possibilities.  A visual daydream of what could be, if only for a moment.  Before it ends.  Because primal passion always ends tragically.  Sometimes our appetites aren't meant to be fed.   Sometimes starving our desires is the only sane thing to do.  

I've learned this lesson over and over.

I try to contain my lust.  

I really do.

But it's just so tempting...

It was a Sunday morning and I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering.  Lust does not take a day of rest apparently.  Especially at Target.  Especially in the shoe aisle.  That's where I saw them, the sexiest and tallest stilettos I'd ever seen.  Ones that would surely lead to my untimely death if I wore them.  I fantasized about having the balance and commitment to discomfort to justify buying them.  But I knew it was a delusion.  Somehow, I had the strength to walk away and leave them there on the shelf.  For now anyway.

Until the next time I was at Target.  When I visited them again.  My lust compounding.

There had to be a way to justify buying them.  

And I would find it.

So I did.  It wasn't so I could dance on a pole in them.  It wasn't for a fancy dinner.  It wasn't to put them on display on the shelf in my closet for ogling purposes.  Which would only lead to my youngest daughter sneaking them off the shelf to wear while she brushes her teeth.  Which accounts for most of the wear and tear (and toothpaste drippings) on my heels.  

No, my plan was even more creative than that.

So I texted friends.  Tried them on.  Put them in my cart.  And bought them.  Finally. 

So I couldn't find the scotch tape and all I had was Christmas robot paper from 8 years ago.
It's the thought that counts.  Right?

And wrapped them up and gave them to my friend who is a complete heel whore for her birthday. 

She could even dance in them.  And she did.